


Fragile, brittle Souls.

by delarge221b



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: 80's- 90's setting, Actor Eren Yeager, Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate universe- 90's, Angst, Angst and Drama, Breaking Up & Making Up, Culture, Day At The Beach, Deprivation of Freedom, Dictatorship, Drama & Romance, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Roller Coaster, F/M, High School Drama, High School Student Eren Yeager, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Poetry, Lost Love, Multi, Musical References, Past Relationship(s), Philosophy Teacher Levi, Photographer Armin, Poet Mikasa, Post-Break Up, Rebels, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Spleen, Teacher Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin), Teenage Drama, Teenage Rebellion, Totalitarian regime, Writer Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin), cultural activities, inspired by everything I redeem as cool, snobby fic, theater band
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 92,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23640664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delarge221b/pseuds/delarge221b
Summary: And as her form in the sand became smaller and smaller, I couldn't take my eyes off of this young woman that lightened, like the moon itself, some pitch black years of my life. Erwin, the Scouts leader, was clutching my shoulder, trying to show me some sympathy. The car carried us further, back to the walls, back to the concrete cage, until she became a small dot on the cold, windy beach in September.Life had a dark sense of humor. The driver broke the heavy silence:"You'll make a great teacher, Levi. And an even better undercover Scout.""To teach what, Mike?" I frowned. "Some bullshit propaganda the Titan Party allows? Sickening manifestos to justify their gruesome murders? Or should I tell those children what philosophy really means, about free will, equity and liberation, when I know so well they will experience anything but that?""That's what we're fighting for, Levi." Erwin sighted. I continued to stare at that poor, sad, small dot, that never stopped waving me goodbye."I'm really leaving, dear." I wanted to say to her, as my last words,"So as to always loveIn this grief, so marvelous,Of never keeping you.Of never being able to allow this love to leave us dead"
Relationships: Levi & Original Character(s), Levi & Reader, Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin)/Original Character(s), Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin)/Original Female Character(s), Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin)/Reader, Levi Ackerman/OC, Levi/Reader, Mikasa Ackerman & Eren Yeager, Mikasa Ackerman/Eren Yeager
Comments: 20
Kudos: 19





	1. Levi: The Unbearable Lightness of Being

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! This is also published on fanfiction.net  
> This fanfic is very, very pretentious, poser-y style, as I said, if you are 16 and misunderstood, you wil love this  
> Half of the chapters are Levi's story, written from his Pov, and half is Eren's, written in third person. However, the stories merge, they are not separated, so I sugggest reading everything.  
> this story includes songs and movies, but Im not one of those authors who insert the entire lyrics and leave it like that.  
> I warn you, the story is complex, there are a lot of flashbacks, the action is light and constantly surrounded by the character's plethora of monologues. This fic kind-of explains why Levi is so cold and grumpy, it's of course, because he has loved too much.  
> however, that means he is very ooc on the inside, while maintaining his badassery on the outside.

The light in the room is so dim, I can barely tell the words apart. Yet the sounds of my typewriter fit perfectly with the sounds of the waves hitting the sand, as if it’s a reassuring tune that I’m doing the right thing by telling you my story. So I follow the signs blind as a bat and go on. I go on, laying down words even though my back hurts and my shoulders are stiff, because that is the way of the writer.

The great novelists of our time did not write for fame, money or to please the masses. They did not even write because they had something smart to say. They have written their great masterpieces solely because, for people like us, life has no meaning otherwise.

It feels to me as if, you are facing thousands of roads which could be your path in life. And they are all blocked, except for one. One that is full of traps, holes, and misery, but it’s the only one available, so you make do.

And there is no other way but forward.

Surely, I am neither Dickens nor Hemingway, but the urge to walk my path is still maneuvering my fingers against the rusty keyboard. So I forget my pain yet again.

This story is no doubt, twisted and complicated, but no worry, I, Levi Ackerman, the most apathetic writer-to-be this System has ever seen, is here to make it even more so:

Paradise Island. An underestimated country, which, in order to be put in its place, is controlled by the party known as "The Titans". Their regime is overwhelming, they rule this nation with an iron fist, they have established the picture-perfect totalitarism, Problems bigger than love such as heat, food, money are in the minds of the inhabitants, and that is because the titans know only to steal, to corrupt, never to teach, never to know. It's worse than Orwell's 1984, which is banned, anyway. Here, everybody is saying "I want to live better", "I want to live healthier", "I want to live like a star".

No one is saying I want to live,

I want to stand and face danger head on,

I want to fight and fly and spit out my color dreams to this grey world. But as they say, you don't need the schools from the West and the money from the East to learn to live. No excuses this time. And no regrets. Even if I'm the only one against this world, I'd rather break my bones against your shitty rules. And so I thought, until…

Yeah yeah, alright, I know you have heard this type of setting before: the Nazism of Germany, the Stalinism of Russia, the Dictatorship in Spain, you name it. However, you have to understand, this is the situation I find myself in. Not the most fortunate one, is it?

Sure, some people are rebelling against our opressors, there is even a Resistance undercover group known as Survey Corps, but the only thing they beat the Titans at is the number of casualties.

So…

Once you've negated everything and done away completely with all forms of existence, once nothing can survive in the path of your negativity, who can you turn to, laughing or crying, if not your own self? Once you have witnessed the fall of the entire world, there is nothing left but for you to fall too. The infinite character of irony cancels all of life's contents, however…

You’re not listening, aren’t you?

You just skipped over that paragraph like a filthy bastard because you do not give a fuck about what I’m saying, do you?

It’s alright, I know you did, there’s no need to hide. In fact, I don’t mind how utterly predictable you are. I am perfectly aware of your desires and I know precisely what you want to hear.

You don’t actually want to read my monologues about my life’s philosophy, that’s not what you are here for.

You’re here for the love story. You want me to lay down in front of your eyes the romance of the century.

You want me to woo you with my words. You can’t wait for our confessions, sloppy kisses and dirty-talking, as long as they fit your fantasies.

And you all will devour my every words, so long as I depict things your way, in perfect order, sterile and logical.

I’m so sorry not sorry to disappoint you.

Why is that you want so badly to defile the very notion of passion? The story I have to tell you is so devoid of certainty and balance…Sometimes I ask myself if I imagined the whole thing out of a terror for order.

Isn’t love after all a rapture of chaos?

And isn’t chaos about your true self? About rejecting all that you have learned?

You come to me empty, bored out of your mind, famished for something you can’t even explain.

Luckily for you, my prodigal sons and daughters, I am here to elaborate.

Your hearts are so dull because you have listened all your life to some men and women whose sheer existence has been a long processions of betrayals, and now they preach to you survival techniques so that you only get the good part out of this relationship-ordeal.

What the hell? Imagine staying in a relationship only for the nice, good parts, and leaving as soon as there are troubles. That’s called abuse on both parts, brats.

Sorry, as I was saying…

Sure, they do not engulf in the warmth of their partner, but they are dressed well and seem happy. So you are all ears to their advice and unsolicited opinions:

Spend some time away from your partner, you do not belong to them.

Settle boundaries. They are healthy.

Learn to be happy without them.

Focus everything on your career, because it will never get tired of you.

I have grown to hate those wise men because they are lazy, cowardly, and prudent. To their equanimity, which makes them indifferent to both pleasure and pain, I prefer devouring passions. Your sages know neither the tragedy of passion, nor the fear of death, nor risk and enthusiasm, nor barbaric, grotesque, or sublime heroism.

They talk in proverbs and give advice. They do not live, feel, desire, wait for anything. They level down all the incongruities of life and then suffer the consequences.

So much more complex is the man who suffers from limitless anxiety. The wise man's life is empty and sterile, for it is free from contradiction and despair. An existence full of irreconcilable contradictions is so much richer and creative. The wise man's resignation springs from inner void, not inner fire.

I would rather die of fire than of void.

I would rather let her kill me instead of our love.

Have I lost everything? Yes.

Do I regret it? No.

If I had a second chance, knowing that our story has a bad ending, would I still chose to love her? Certainly.

See the difference? I hope you do.

Let me tell you something. Love, the real, genuine one that I had, the kind you see in the movies and hear about in legends, is not about a healthy distance.

It’s about a complete submersion into your partner and likewise. It’s about a profound sense of belonging.

You do not tolerate each other only as long as both of you are pleasing and fully charged. Can you imagine the conversations your modern standards imply? “Honey, I will encounter an existential crisis in two days time and I require your support and embraces. Are you available during that time frame?”

“Oh, sorry dear, but I have some projects that need urgent solving. You must turn to your best friend for support. But I am free on Friday at 4 PM if you want to reschedule your dread. Contact me ASAP.”

Do you realize how ridiculous you sound? That is so fucked up…No.

No, that’s not what it’s about.

You listen to them even when you’re tired, they fight for you even if they can’t win , you change a little so that you fit better against each other.

The true love that you crave is not about building up boundaries.

True love is about destroying them.

And you learn that the merging of the souls is done with great suffering, and there is a price to pay: vulnerability, pain and a certain bitter submission.

But without sacrifice, all is but a lukewarm water to wash away the tragedy of loneliness.

Are you still following? Good, because I have decided to spoil you for once.

I’ll tell you all about our first interaction, the first glimpse between me and her, in a nice, respectable order. No flashbacks, no bits to confuse you, and I’ll try to lay back on the contemplations.

Why? Oh, it’s because you only adore me as long as I please you.

Chapter 1

Once upon a time, ten years ago in a very, very far away place, away from the greatest threat known to mankind: the mundane, your not-so charming antihero was sitting drunk on the sand with the most annoying and serious man on Earth. The sea was acting like a frigid bitch, the wind was howling like a beast and I was constantly one step away from hypothermia. Because back then, I had the guts, or rather, the hope, to be like that:

To like that place even when it turned against me.

To wait for the grand reopening of its arms.

To have an endless patience, like Tantalus.

And, now that I’m walking slowly to my grave and I call my bitterness maturity, I can’t believe I put all my faith in a place because it had once urged me to write some silly, beatnik-wannabe poetry.

"I'm only 18,

I love, I'm broke and crazy

No one stands in my way,

I am sure my one-way road

Will lead me somewhere…”

I muttered as I looked far away in the waves for the words to fit the rhyme. I had to admit, poetry was not my forte, I was more of a prose guy.

My stomach was growling even louder than the sea, but I wanted so much to be like one of those poets that had written masterpieces on an empty stomach and a full mind.

Well, a balanced life was never an option for people like us. The words would’ve got on the paper soon enough if only I weren’t interrupted…

"Cut the crap out, you sappy idealist, you'll never make it as a writer, heh." Sigh. There went the whole mood. Nowadays, you couldn’t even feel alive without someone complaining that you were not sitting in your spot, minding your own business. I put the notebook beside me and dropped against the cold sand, lit a Marlboro in my mouth, took a long drag and felt the heat of _this place_ radiating against my back, even though it was night and chilly, mid-September and everybody left. Everybody except him and I. And her. And those amazing stars.

"How about you stop talking like those boys who pretend to read Tolstoy, Farlan?" I spat back overwhelmed with malice and took in the scenery before my eyes: a full moon, clouds, a pitch-black sky decorated with thousands of stars.

I remembered the voice of some poorly-paid scientist saying how much greater and more infinite than us the whole cosmos-crap is. Years-light. The Milky Way, ten thousand times bigger than our planet. Every time I asked someone smart about the Universe, all I got were numbers, reactions, compositions, physics, things like that.

What a big pile of rational bullshit. In truth, I knew the Universe was just another actor, just another poser like us, who enjoyed pretending to be big, when in reality it was anything but.

I knew it, because in that moment, as the leather bit into my skin, my fingers were frozen and I felt Farlan’s warm but scolding gaze down at me, all the stars, colorful gases and infinite black holes could fit in my soul. They were growing inside, running in my guts, killing me softly, clashing against the walls of my heart.

I felt just like a frail spirit with a hurricane inside that no one would understand anyway.

"What are we gonna do about the army, Levi?" I was, however, completely sure that this pragmatism of his would kill me before my inner burning did, though.

"I'm not going." And my short but sure answer made everything freeze in silence for a damn second.

"What do you mean? Are you crazy?" Farlan yelled with concern.

I turned to one side, and there he was. 3 inches away from me, but whole worlds between our eyes. I liked way too much doing that, defying my best friend, fixing his gaze, trying to get him to surrender that way or another. He used to say that I should fix those pretentious things I wrote instead of spoiling myself with him.

However, the reason I was so out of place with every normal behavior known to this island, was much, much deeper than a need for validation. I did it because I knew.

I knew that I couldn’t be vulgar, I couldn’t be gross or out of place, as they said. Because back then, I had the day of tomorrow by my side, I was however old I wanted, I could be whatever I pleased.

As for now, I am stuck with a version of myself that I like less and less every day.

"I'm not like you, Farlan. I'm want to be free and I'm not gonna bow."

"The head that is bowed, the sword doesn't cut…"

"But with shame it will bend the chain on its back…" I spat back and took another drag from my cigarette.

"Can you please not act for once like you're the holder of the world's essence?

You're so full of yourself. I’ve been with you since day one and you still act like everything is a dick measuring contest, except with smart words instead of weapons…why?

Because you have read some books, play guitar and think you're gonna throw the government over? Please, just make sure the Military Police doesn't throw you in a cell and tear you apart." He finished with distaste.

You see? Like I said, no one, however close he may be, was going to understand your inner tornado. They were always going to come up with stupid explanations why you were so fucked up: mommy issues, daddy issues, trauma, bad childhood, Pavlov’s dog complex, Don Quijote complex and other things to make themselves feel good about the void in their souls or minds. It was really not their fault.

Not that I was really talking about Farlan. He was such an anchor every time my head was so far in the clouds. He was a good comrade, a great friend, sometimes a nice lover and most of the time simply the bitter medicine I needed.

"You're not free Levi, not at all" and he hoped his words would not haunt me.

In the distance, I heard the sweet voice of my favorite disciple (and the only one, really) inviting us to drink a beer and sing till our throats hurt. She was sweet like a caramel apple and she sure looked like one. Isabel was one of the reasons I did not throw the world on fire.

"Well, my children will be free" I thought of this comeback long before the conversation had even started. "We lost. We were happy that we discovered Pepsi and let the Titans take over. What are they gonna do?"

"Don't you get tired of always chewing on your own smart shit?" I raised an eyebrow, but I could tell by the way he was smiling and running his fingers through his hair, that a part of his own hurricane was agreeing with mine. I started to cough, and I loved it, because somehow it meant that my flesh cage could not keep up with my spirit. I was so much more than this half-decent meat prison I threw left and right, drowning it in alcohol, nicotine and howls with lyrics.

"Can you please stop smoking those cigarettes? If only you didn't have a stupid reason for it…is it about that book you promise to publish someday? That the horse from Marlboro is going to wait you on your street…you're starting to run out of muses."

"Pfff, as if. Stick to your paintings , sweetie. It's a symbol."

"It's a banned American commercial that we sometimes catch when we steal the TV signal…no big deal. I saw it too. Pretty, liberating, but that's about it"

"Well, eyes can't get in the depth of things."

"haha, funny. Then mind explaining it to me?"

"Well…" I got up and close my eyes. "You simply need a different organ to feel it."

"Do you say that to every person that doesn't understand your endless struggling to search a meaning?" he winked at me knowing that I disliked his teasing.

"Do I smell a hint of me in your thoughts?" I questioned him in delight.

"Please bite your tongue. You act like you invented hot water or something...” I laughed more than I'm supposed to. Life had a nice taste back then and it sure felt better to act like a pretentious writer than a copycat painter.

"Levi…" he started when I got up from the sand and began walking towards the camp where Isabell was waiting us . "Please, don't turn into one of those strict, dull adults whose only joy is to mock others, the world will probably end in that moment" and even if he had slapped me he could not have hit me better.

I stopped in my tracks and I faced him like you face your demons: no smart way out, no place to run. Simplicity in things like that were sometimes the key.

"These are things of the surface. Maybe they'll change me too, the Titans, or rather, try to. But then again, this is just like molding some metal to keep what's inside. The Tin-man with the Andromeda galaxy inside."

“that’s it, then. From now I’m calling you Levi the Tin-man” Farlan said.

“This works the other way too…If I see your art style on some Titan-manifesto flyers, I will make sure to kill you personally” I replied as we took the same path.

Farlan kept walking straight while I did every effort to linger a little bit more. Were they going to take this from us too? This beach I ran on, the footprints I left, the sand in my hair? This really special place was the closest thing to the sky I had felt, so naturally I had this bitter feeling that one day I would be able to smell its end. I started to imagine what it would be like to be burried 6 feet under the sand as collateral victim to the destruction of **The Zone**. I was going to be the next Icarus, that was for sure.

Hoards and hoards of others were far away, maybe in Shingashina, maybe in Trost or maybe simply lost in the crowds. Because here it's the end of the world, made especially for me and Farlan and Isabel and…

The moon shone, not obstructed by clouds, and for the first time I noticed we were not alone on the beach. A man clearly way too drunk for his own good gazed at the sea in silence, with shame and betrayal. He was sitting in a nasty looking cart that had seen better days.

A young woman was reading next to him, engrossed in some novel, not even lifting her eyes for a second. She was dressed in old fashioned clothes, her hair was a mess, everything looked both odd and fitting on her.

She looked like a doll that had started a rebellion when it was still not in fashion to do so, and then had to face some punishment she had obviously enjoyed. What a view. She had braided seashells in her hair and she was reading Milan Kundera in French. _The unbearable lightness of being._ Black market stuff. Not allowed anywhere but **here** . I felt that with every step my feet were getting heavier and heavier and they were opposing to carry me further. She was holding a cigarette between her lips. Marlboro.

“Farlan, hey” I pointed at the drunk man “ I am quite certain that Hemingway wrote _The Old Man and the Sea_ with this guy on his mind”

“Yeah, sure, except if you didn’t have your head up your ass 24/7 you would know who that is” Farlan said with a frown.

“Enlighten me then, my dearest”

“That, Levi, is the former leader of the guides that take us to this place…he is Doth Pixis, and I think he retired around the time we have started to come here.”

“That drunkard is the late leader of the Garrisons?! That can’t be, you have to be kidding me... “ I couldn’t hide the shock from my eyes. I simply refused to imagine that human wreck protecting and guiding those who were against the regime for God knows how long.

“Well, he clearly has seen better days…” Farlan said with content in his voice.

“And the girl sitting next to him?” I tested the waters.

“No idea, really, but I always see her whenever we come here. I don’t think she leaves or something, it’s really weird. Maybe she is the spirit of this place.” He joked wih a small chuckle.

“I don’t know, surely suits her.” I said with a bored expression and fixed my eyes on her figure. I stopped moving completely as Farlan went on further from me. I was so cold in my leather jacket and I couldn’t wait for some nice hot tea with brandy.

Life couldn’t wait either. The Universe did not like me to wait. Fate did not like me to wait. My soul did not like me to wait. My lungs did not like to wait. So they filled on their own accord, and before I knew it, my mouth moved and…

“HeY LADY! Call me when you start reading real literature” And her response? This strange creature turned her head to look into my eyes and stuck her tongue out at me. I got nothing but her silence and mockery. How dare she…

I don’t know to this day what had gotten into me back then. I was not exactly the most benevolent being, but I also was not some tasteless, ludicrous asshole either.

That did not felt right. It felt awkward and annoying. What the hell was I thinking? I didn’t even believe in spirits, love at first sight or shit like that.

The silence was so heavy, it was swallowing my pride, her thick hair strands, the book, until there was nothing left but her eyes. I saw stars in her eyelashes. Her pupils looked at me and mocked me. I liked how they were impertinent and they dared me to come back next summer.

And even with all the rest of the cynical explanation that we were nothing but atoms; it did not mean it was not real, alive and elevating. It would be frightening to believe that in this cosmos full of laws and harmony, only our lives happened at random, only our destinies had no meaning.

"Levi, I'm going to leave you here forever if you don't come right now" Farlan yelled in the distance.

Yes please. Leave me here, Let me be. Let me be a fragile, let me be vulnerable, let me take if not given, let me hold my dreams tight. Let me…

_Look at her._

I broke the spell after what seemed like an eternity and went on my way back to camp. I braced myself for Farlan and Isabell’s jokes and mockery, although I knew nothing in this world or the other could prepare me for that. Apparently, it was simply forbidden in their agenda for their obnoxious philosopher to act with such a lack of style.

Her eyes were still burning in the back of my mind. All this fiasco was so out of place that…

I can’t, to this day, imagine a better start of my love story with her.


	2. Eren: Life is Somewhere Else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have some Eren action! This chapter needs to be rewritten so badly, perhaps I'll do it when I have time.  
> If everything is confusing and doesn't make any sense, don't worry, all of it will be explained.

_Mikasa_

Bustling. Rushing. Mumbles. Problems everywhere. All over the house, Mikasa could hear the buzz of the morning through the endless bickering of her parents. Sometimes she wondered how they managed to fit so many formal questions and fake concern in that one-story house: "where are my keys?", "come down to eat", "go wake the children", "I have to work until late today". She squinted her eyes in small disgust, looking to her side where Eren's form was still covered in the blankets in the bed near hers. Her eyes lingered on the white sheets longer than they should. The windows were wide open and coldness was getting inside, but she didn't seem to mind, because she was trying to chase it away: the calming smell of the sleep from his bed, from his shirt she was wearing, from everything. If you asked any of Eren's friends to tell you how he smelled, Mikasa knew for certain what they would answer: mint, spice, salt, and some other basic smells boys were supposed to smell of. She sighed, she took in the air. In that moment, she didn't feel that unimportant to him, because she knew it all: how he smelled in the morning, before there was time to apply perfume, to say 'Good morning", to start fighting. Before mint, spice, and everything nice, his smell clung to her skin heavy, drowning, ten times stronger than gravity. He smelled like sleep, skin and secrets, and none of the friends, girlfriends and other acquaintances knew that. She was sure of it. For that, she felt proud and some unexplainable joy was created inside her nerves, because he had no choice but to let her steal something vulnerable and intimate. And although Mikasa wasn't sure how secrets were supposed to smell like, she imagined it must be what she inhales when she wakes up at night to find his green eyes staring into hers. No words spoken, no gestures made. Only them, like they were trapped in some primordial silence.

"Mikasa, wake Eren up and go to school, you're going to be late. You don't want that in the first day of school, do you?" A quick spasm of her hand was what had saved her from probably the third world war, led by her mother. She threw open the door to their room in a hurry, and although she was pretending all the time to have good intensions, Mikasa knew her rebellion against the maternal figure of the house was not unjustified. She wanted to catch them. But no luck this time either. Because Mikasa was younger, smarter, quicker and had more guts than anyone. Almost anyone, she thought as her calf was brushing against the foot of Eren's bed.

"Are you hiding something, young lady?" Ugh, there it comes, the interrogatory. By now, Mika was more than certain about the order of the questions. First, she was going to ask about school, even though both children told her the same things about a hundred times.

"When do you finish today?" Then, about the dark circles under her eyes.

"You don't look well rested, did you slept well last night?" Next it's about Eren. Or her. Or her and Eren.

"Did Eren keep you up all night? I thought I heard some noises…"

"Mother, stop it. I was helping Eren with some lessons in literature." Not that he needed them; really "I know it is important for everyone that he does well at those finals at the end of the high school"

"Mikasa..." her mother kindly smiled, she was leaning against the door frame. " You know very well I can tell when you're lying through your teeth" ugh-oh. Busted.

"Get out" Mika sighed and got up to slam the door. Was it her business anyway?

" Sweetie, please…"

"I don't want to hear it" said Mikasa

"Then stop feeding me your bullshit all the time!" Karla's screams hit her in the face like thousands of sand bits from a beach storm, concluded with the slamming of the door, there you had it. The mix of the perfect morning.

Mikasa walked to her bed, her feet slow, pale, with pretty veins around them. She intentionally stumbled with strange, clumsy steps, putting her weight from one foot to the other. She felt strange, but because Eren told her once she looked like a doll every time she wasn't stepping straight and fierce, she liked to feel clumsy, without precision and careless behind closed doors.

She looked at her palm, which was holding a half-smoked cigarette. She brought it closer to her face, examining it , turning it on one side, then on the other.

The smoke was rising upwards, no purpose, no target, only to be washed away by the wind from the outside, grey and full of meaning. Nowadays, dozens of pages from any biology book she had to study talked about the dangers of smoking, cancer, traheoctomy, how it's only a bad habit that is going to ruin the youth of the new generation, making them unable to work, concentrate, fulfill their purpose.

Their purpose. Not hers. Or Eren's.

There it was, this white stick with an orange tip, her's and Eren's little manifestation against the world. Their own tie to one another that they won't bend or fit, their own secret hidden from the eyes of those who say that they're only reckless and without conscience. She let out a little chuckle and threw the whole package inside her schoolbag. Marlboro.

She turned to Eren's bed, her long fingers grabbing the white sheets and throwing them to the floor. Underneath, a great pile of shirts, jeans, pillows and socks made it look like his form. She had done it the night before, after she waited until 2 AM for him to call her on a public phone. When she made up with the idea that he won't call, as he usually does, she turned into the sculptor of their own tiny toxic world, so that when his mother will knock on their door this morning, she will have it covered while he was _out there_. Right now, she hated how this big pile turned out, how badly it resembled him. Eren was everything not in the way he scrapped his jeans, ruined his socks or did his own T-shirts with discreet poetry lyrics, but in the way all seemed to fit him like a mirror and her like an armor.

She headed to the door and she threw one more menancing look at the Eren-pile. She resisted the urge to throw in it and surround herself in a closed bronze bubble, because she knew that later that day he would clash right there, tired, spent, no words, like he had been on a journey to search for his soul over the 7 seas. If only he weren't doing exactly that.

 _He will come back. He always does._ While this may seem like cheap self-pity, the messed up sheets, her lighter, the small mirror and their collection of forbidden books under her bed knew she was right all along. _He's a dumbass anyway. Not my fault he chose to stay in that far away place until now._ She tried to man up and make excuses for her own self, but every time she tried that, a small corner of her mind scorned her that they weren't fitting just because she didn't listen to him as much as she should. Or maybe she just wasn't reckless enough to walk the line by his side. She was smart, unpredictable and strong, but there was this little bugger: the problem was that she could hardly breathe, and it wasn't from all the cigarttes she smoked.

_Eren_

„GET OUT OF MY WAAY!" on the train station in the far, far away place that connected **there** to the other dreamless, censored places, they were running and running. Quick, aggitated steps were trying to make their way out from the mess they did with their own hands. Two pairs of legs seemed like they were winning the world marathon cup, when in reality, the problem at stake was much more important than that: high school was starting and they had still a two hour ride with a train that was always trying not to leave.

„Armin, move your ass or we are both more than screwed!" of course, you could imagine who it was about. Two casant souls. The pair of legs clad in heavy, black leather boots turned around and a hand full of sand and smelling like vodka grabbed another hand, paler and more gracile.

So they started to run again, and even though the situation was less than likeable, Eren had a grin on his face enough to light up his whole home town. As his backpack was hitting against his tired body with full force, his feet were faster than the wheels that started to move, and he wished for nothing more than to be stuck in a time loophole, the kind Armin had told him about the night before: always chasing, his lungs burning, a shell in his pocket, fire in his eyes and a hand to hold onto. He wanted to be able to run forever, towards what was supposed to happen, towards his dreams and ideals, over fields and railways, highways and oceans.

4 more seconds and the train would be gone from the station, so he was dealing with a less-than-likeable situation

„Eren this is all your fault!" the high-pitched voice of his best friend rang in his ears.

4.

One last chance to catch it. He had to somehow jump more than all his muscles could manage from the platform straight through the door of the train.

3.

Chances to make it: less than 0. he imagined himself clashing on the concrete floor, Armin tearing up, his cute little head read with anger. Another chance to dissappoint everyone: his parents, his friends, the system, his fucked-up school, Mik-

2.

Not. This. Time. Not her. Not now. Never. He gritted his teeth and now the door was so close to him, he had to make it. This one-way ticket back to his home, to grab her hand and change the world together.

1.

The wind was everywhere: in his ears, nose, veins, behind him, in the train station. Everything was moving, and he realized for once, that it was not against him. He wanted to laugh at the whole situation. How come he, who pulled every muscle while trying to go against the stream, was suddenly helped by it? He held Armin's hand way too tight and did it.

The jump.

His feet left the ugly platform, and he felt the strings bringing him closer. To them. To her. _The ties that bind us._ He remembered some fancy words he read a long time ago in some poem. Maybe one of hers.

0.

**And falling in love is like a window, you throw yourself from.**

They made it. When he opened his eyes, the sky above him was running from him, back here, he was panting like a hunted animal and his legs had given up under him. They had not catched him yet. On his side, Armin looked like he's about to puke.

„We are never doing this again, Eren." He mumbled.

„Shut up, coconut, you loved it." He managed to get up and clash his forehead against his best friend's. Thousands of thoughts roaming, one above the others: ‚ I'm not dissapointing you this time, Mikasa.' When the spirits calmed down, Armin was sitting on the connecting wood platform outside of the train, a book in his hand. Eren gave him a small smile, then kneeled beside him.

„Armin, name one person on Paradis that studied a lot and ended up well..." he said in a bickering tone

„You don't have any right to say a word after this mess. I won't go anywhere with you again as long as I live!" he bit back.

„ Yes you will..." Eren said with warm, melting eyes and leaned down to rest his head on Armin's lap, fading away in a sweet much-needed sleep. He loved it. Everything. And nothing would stop him this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy! suggestions ,opinions and general advice is always welcome! I am looking for a beta reader, so message me if you want more than grammar checks. I want to share with my possible beta reader advice, plot holes, ideas, you name it.


	3. Levi: Far from the Maddening Crowd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you noticed the chapters have famous books as titles? the books are, in a way, like a summary of the chapter.  
> another chapter from levi's Pov!  
> Petra's fans, I am sorry !  
> Italics represent memories!

" _I don't want you to stay here any longer." She said looking outside the window at the waves crashing onto the sand. The sky was grey, the spirit long gone and the whole place looked like a broken heart closed for renovations: glass shards all over, empty alcohol bottles and other's trash that has started to smell._

" _So that's what you want" and there is an endless pause before I manage to say the next words. "You don't want us to be together anymore." I sighed. I hated it. I hated everything. Every little piece of her. I hated how she never cut her hair, how her nose arched up, how she always had sand under her nails and how she wore weeds in her hair. I hated the mug she was holding, how the handle was broken, how I knew that it had 3 coffee rings on the inside and 3 lipstick stains on the outside._

" _Yes. And if you love me you'll do as I say." I hated that she's right. I hated that she always won the fight, that I let her win. I hated that even though I had the last world, her sheer eyes looking into mine were worse than a judge's hammer. Until then, every moment spent here had its own melody. Like a faint buzz in every rustle, wave or touch that made me sure I was on the right way: a yell in the distance, an old song upstairs, her feet following mine in the morning on the cold floor, the sound of a shell cutting my palm, the cheers of the beer bottles every night. And now…_

_Now everything was silent. The clock on the wall was not working anymore, since I had forgotten to turn it, so it looked like time was no longer flowing, that we were stuck on our chairs, suspended in a fight. Except this time, there were no longer us against the world, but us against each other. And in the end, I had to accept the idea that everything was nothing more than the natural order of things: I had to lose her in order not to lose myself._

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Again, this fucking dream. I open my eyes and see that it's time to get up, as usual. My curtains are pulled apart even though I always close them before I go to bed. I feel my whole body heavy, my back is hurting and those grey sheets are too cold. I look on the empty space beside me, where the sheets are ruffled up and the pillow on the side, the person who warmed them long gone, as per usual. Scratch that. This tiny house is cold like a fridge, even though Petra always turns the heat up whenever she comes over. I want to close my eyes and never get up again, I want to curl up, turn into a fetus, then an embryo, disintegrate myself, cell by cell, until I slip from this existence and become an atom. Just me, my nucleus and my electrons flying around me, not a care in the world anymore.

"Levi, I have to go."

Apparently, that has to wait. Petra leans in the doorway, and she is dressed up and with make-up on, as per usual. Cotton dress, nylon tights and brown eye pencil. Same as usual. Everything is the same with her, as it should be. Outside the apartment, I can hear the morning screams that marks another day in this shithole I'm living in: common arguments, money spent on booze, cheating husbands, the rest. Or maybe a drunken good-for-nothing unemployed man fell on the tulips that some lady carefully planted.

So no chance for me returning back to sleep. I look at Petra once more; she has her shoes in her hand that I once said I liked out of politeness. As she looks at me with a sad smile, I realize that she's needed. Even though I want to deny it every time. Even though she assures me everything is fine and that she wants something different. I know for sure she is somehow the much needed constant, like the flower you put in a glass cage in order to keep it to yourself forever. If one day she would say something out of place, not wear heels or not take pity of me anymore, the whole order of the world would fall apart around her, people would not get up in the morning, the earth wouldn't spin and everything would burn down. I feel the weight of everything that's right, rigorous and fair pressing on her small shoulders. She's waiting, I can see. She's waiting for me to say something, anything remotely lukewarm to her.

"Go then, you're not supposed to take care of me. See you in school" And so my words fall like a rock from the fifth floor. Unfortunately, I can't love her, not the way she wants me to. So I get up and slid past her, and I can see in the corner of my eyes that she's clutching her hands around her chest, her eyes are down and her hair framing her face. She turns around and wants to leave, but she's not sure if she did something wrong again, if she's not enough or if we are simply puzzle pieces from different corners. Either way, she lingers like the sun in April, so in conclusion I'm the bad guy again, the asshole. What can you do?

I go to the bathroom and I turn on the faucet, but what greets me sounds more like a gurgle of some sea monster: Titans cut our water again, to save money, help the country's economy, etc, so, I guess they're not used to washing their mouths after all the shit they eat in the government every day. I sigh and have to manage to go on.

After I make myself look a little presentable, I check my watch and realize that I have to be in school in half an hour. My first day as a homeroom teacher and the students are already bringing me bad luck. I slide into the kitchen chair, where everything is at the right spot, devoid of color, mostly in tones of sickly grey, moldy brown or plain crème. Only on the table, I can see a mug, so she must have drunk some coffee before she woke me up. She's on the chair at the other end of the table and her mug is between us. I take it in my hands and notice two lipstick stains on the rim. I let out a sneer. Nice, but not enough. There's a heavy silence, and I feel bad for the weight of it that must be pressing on Petra's heart. Her poor heart that must be the size of her fist. And her hand is so much tinier than mine, I'm left perplexed. She puts her arm on the table, her long fingers searching mine, and I let them find mine, my index tracing the contour of her trimmed nails, her ring and the peachy fuzz on them. I drink the coffee I long for and it tastes amazing, very strong and with a nice aroma. She's good at one thing, I give her that.

"Why do you always hold your cup so funny?" her voice rings through the air, like some basic cliché harp chord. I look down at my hand which is holding the coffee cup from the rim, instead of from the handle, very useless and unusual, some might say.

" _Levi" her voice was barely above a whisper but it seemed like a wave that crashed against our four walls and went back to hit me tenfold,, and she was sitting right in front of me, so all their struggle was quite useless. She looked like a child who suddenly discovered all the wrongs in the world and I looked into her pale blue eyes and wanted to keep her to myself forever. Even with her sweet pout, big dark circles and eye gunk. Even if she smelled like a sailor from my cheap cigarettes. She looked to the side and I see some eyeliner from the day before and a scratch near her shoulder blade where she had cut her skin with a seashell. Women just didn't get it. A beautiful woman stays a beautiful woman. A beautiful woman with dark circles is not ugly, it's just…a beautiful woman with dark circles. However, things turn a little difficult when you're both woman, girl and spirit. I saw her wolf ring on her middle finger and I hoped that she would punch me in the face with it one day so that I would wake up and go further than this end of the world._

" _I broke my cup Levi. I'm sorry" I saw it in the corner of my eyes. Her cup, rolling on the floor, the handle broken. I thought it's kind of funny, because she looked like she just saw one of the greatest Greek tragedies and witnessed the fall of a thousand kings. But that's just her. I had a cup of my own, same as her, that we had bought on the beach when we first started talking. I still remembered how she held her breath when…_

_Well, that's a story for some other time._

" _Well, what can you do about it…?" I raised an eyebrow and took my own cup, full of cigarette butts. It was made from cheap china and it had half a wing, mine was black and hers was white. I decided that I had to ruin my cup too, in order to fit the chaos in front of me. And if I messed up and ended up turning everything into shards, I still would have to try it. I understood that some things must be done quietly, with no questions, with no reason. For her. For the single white strand in her hair and her small ankle that bumped into mine. For her sweet pout and this end of the world. She was worth it. All the shards and all the battles._

_I raised my hand and smashed the handle against the edge of the kitchen table. It broke loudly, with a clink, but she did not move at all. Almost like she was waiting for it. So weird. Now I had to grab my cup from the rim, like some awkward retarder aristocrat._

" _Happy? Now they're both broken" I said in a tired tone and placed both our cups near each other. She lowered her head on her forearms to observe them better and smiled, and I saw her cute little crooked canine peaking in the corner of her mouth._

" _aww" she half gasped. "It's a match! Now they can fit and be broken together forever"._

" _Except we will have to drink like creeps from now on because you couldn't keep still for a second" I scolded her, but I saw in her eyes that she didn't care at all._

" _I don't mind it being broken, as long as it's with you." I closed my eyes and threw my head back. I loved it there so much. And I knew it, that she must be some kind of witch, or maybe something like Nietzsche's demons, that wars were ahead of me and words and poems and knowledge were waiting to be discovered._

" _Me neither." But for everything there, I would gladly post-pone a battle or two._

"No reason at all, it's just habit, believe me." I want to gulp down the whole thing, but I see her standing in front of me and a lump stands in my throat. I get up, slowly, without a real whish to do anything, and place the cup in the sink. I feel bad about it all, about her perfect hair, about her hand into mine and about the world on her shoulders.

"I'll give you a ride to school, come on." It make me depressed how I see her whole face light up from a few simple words that she tries to find meaning to. Don't they give Nobel prizes for being a selfish bastard?

So now we're on our way to school, on this shitty road full of shit and shitty holes. I'm driving the car the government wants me to drive, nothing special. Maybe that's why I think about clashing into a tree with it from time to time, no big deal after all. If you look anywhere inside my house, you will see everything is more than in order. The chairs are more than in order, the glasses are more than in order, hell, even Petra is more than in order…so why am I not able to lo-

"I love this song, Levi!" she smiles discreetly and turns up the radio, a song from a random artist beyond our Island is playing.

My car on the other hand, is a complete mess, it smells unpleasant and it's very unkempt, because it's not something wanted, it's something given. By them. My small quiet objection against the Titans is not cherishing what they give me, mostly because they tell me exactly to do it so. It's hard to be a rebel when you're thirty.

Occasionally, I steal a glance to Petra when she's not looking. She's facing away from me, looking at the grey blocks on the side window, lost in thought. I know what she's thinking, most likely something about her dream of writing a book, escaping this town and running away. The saddest part is, she's not dumb at all. She has a literature major, so there must be a feeling there, when she's not teaching idiotic kids about what Herodotus wanted to say in Odyssey. She's brave, modern and quite pretty, so why…

Why am I so cruel to her?

Why can't I love her the way she wants me to?

Why don't we fit at all?

And I still know all the answers. It's because she's always with a foot in and one out, always ready to go if things get to messy, wanting it all but not going to commit. See, there is our problem. Love, life and anything special really is about fighting in the mess, about feeling it in your guts. It's a pain that you gladly accept and she still doesn't want to accept it. But, maybe one day, she will finally manage to climb the big wall I have built around myself and jump inside my heart. The wall is very solid and very high, so I would protect myself, so I won't lose the battle again. After all, the higher you built a wall around yourself; the better will be the one that will be able to climb it. And she will grow strong; I hope so, for both our sakes.

We are finally reaching the school parking lot and she's packing her things. I keep my mouth tied and park somewhere random, beside other emerald-mixed-with-vomit green cars around. When I turn off the engine, I sigh and I look at her. She has already resigned herself, but still smiling.

"See you tonight? You can come to my place…" I give her a faint nod and she opens the door, rushing to the teacher's room without any other words. How predictable. I light a cigarette and I take a long drag from it. First period is homeroom, which means the real fight begins and I want to look as decent as possible in the battlefield. Please, remind me again why I am a teacher…

The bell is ringing and everyone around me is trying to get to the class as quickly as possible.

Not me. I see boys and girls rushing inside their classrooms and I'm nervous. I have a tough, shitty-paid job, because it's not about telling them to write this and that on a paper so that they will get good grades. It's about stomping in their messy minds and leaving a foot print that alters their way of thinking into something good. I have to show them beauty, truth and self-discovery, and God I wish it was easier.

The class I'm about to teach in is at the end of the hall, so that means walking past old walls, rusty lockers and peeled wallpapers. A portrait of someone, I think the founding titan or someone else as stupid, stands in the top corner of the hall, surrounded by mold. And as much as I want to spit on it, I'm not in the mood for another scolding from Erwin. Besides, it's not my fight anymore.

I take a deep breath and I grasp the door handle, thinking it's now or never. I hate it when I'm nervous, but there are perks in always having the same facial expression. I take the first few steps into the classroom, and I can feel around 20 pairs of eyes watching my every move. They're not making a sound and no one is moving. Good. That means they're paying attention for once in their lives. I bet each one will have gossip topics about me in the lunch break. Whatever.

"Good morning class. My name is Levi Ackerman and I'm your new homeroom and philosophy teacher, and this year, I'm gonna be your worst nightmare." I hope that settles it. The truth is, I enjoy being mean only too little, but I'm not going to be an open book softie to them. If they don't deserve it, at least.

I study their faces and I must admit I'm pretty impressed. Some are bored, some look like they want to kill me and some of them are too scared to move. In the left corner, a girl continues to eat potato chips. She's sitting next to a boy who has two different hair colors and has his arms crossed. Further back one tall boy struggles to keep a smile on while a bald guy will soon eat a fly from keeping his mouth open this long.

In the front row, I see what I perceive is the alpha trio of the class. A girl with short black hair, who is not buying my shit, and I already see a pack of Marlboro peeking out of her school jacket. There is also a blonde boy who wants to look decent, but is panting like he went through hell and back to get here. All about the first impressions, I see. And in the middle, two green eyes are starring at me. He and the blonde guy are the only kids not wearing a uniform and instead, under their desks lay two large backpacks that still have sand all over them. I try to swallow my smile as I realize I'm dealing with sweet vandals. The boy in the middle cocks his head to the side and smirks at me.

I'm delighted; I see exactly what I was hoping for. Their eyes tell me everything I need to know: that they're brave, ready to do great things, willing to take if not given. They are naughty and arrogant. They're so young, they have a chance for saving themselves and they are not going to throw it away.

So I'm going to teach them how. In order for them to love me, I must speak their language .

But their language is something that you learn fast and forget even faster. We all spoke it once. Few of us still know it. They are still naïve and for them my knowledge is beaten by their courage. I look with envy at the blood running through their veins and how they look like a pack of young wolves sick of this world that is already so full.. They are noisy, crazy and always rushing and they remind me that they are the only thing pushing this world forward.

Uncertain and vengeful, radical and never forgiving, easy to hurt and to manipulate. They look like children of life and sworn enemies of death and they are ready to follow their dreams until they drop dead. Time is on their side. They are…fragile souls. The pretty wanderers of time's boulevards.

The boy in the middle has a book in his hand.

I pretend not to see it.

Milan Kundera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, the picture does not belong to me. You can find most of the pictures on Giorgi Journal facebook page.  
> Don't forget to review, kudo, whatever, and message me if you consider being my beta reader.


	4. Eren: Voltaire's Zaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter needs to be edited, I will rewrite it after I post the 9th chapter.

"Buckle up boys, because shit's about to hit the fan. And here I thought that this year I'll pass all my classes." In the boys' bathroom, a group of teens are skipping some class that's too boring for them. The place is filthy, the toilets smell horrible and there are dirty words on all the stalls, not to mention that the floor is covered in cigarette butts, seeing as the cleaning lady probably drank again and is sleeping somewhere.

"Jean-boo, the reason why you don't pass your classes isn't the teachers, it's because you're an idiot with a big mouth". Sitting on the radiator that is out of order since they got into high school, Eren puffs out some smoke. He smirks and licks his lips, tilting his head back and looking at the ceiling. One of his elbows is resting on his knee while the other leg is dangling on the floor. "Besides, I might like this new teacher, he's not dull like the others and some philosophy might be useful."

The whole room is thick from the smoke of everyone's cigarettes, Jean is leaning against the stall, Mikasa is perched up on the window sill, Connie is sitting in the sink while Armin is keeping watch, probably shitting himself.

"Well, that's just my opinion; I always say what I think!" Jean defends himself.

"Yeah, but do you think what you say?" Eren asks with a smug look.

"Why you little bitch…."

"Let me guess, you just bought another book you're not allowed to read" Connie rolls his eyes and spits on the ground.

"Not just any book Connie, Voltaire, if you can imagine." Eren lifts his index accordingly.

"Wow Eren, so unpredictable, as always" Jean says with sarcasm in his voice and crosses his arms.

"Whatever, like I care for the opinion of uncultu-"

"will you shut up already?!" a voice echoes on the walls, turning every head towards Armin's direction

" Everyone knows why you read this stuff, it is because they are forbidden and you want to look like the almighty rebel when all you do is smoke, get into fights and flirt with everything that has two legs. You don't care about culture or knowledge at all." Armin's voice wakes everyone up from their dizzy state, and even Eren jumps a bit when he hears the malice in his voice.

He sighs, jumps from his spot and walks with slow steps towards Armin. He wraps an arm around his middle and pulls him close, his big green eyes staring into Armin's baby blue ones. That's the look everyone knows, when he seems in such deep thought, batting his long eyelashes and biting his lower lip, you'd think any moment from now on he will tell the most amazing thing in the world, a creative and smart comment, what philosophers crave for years, but…

"You're just jealous because the sports teacher lets me skip the class and not you, Armie." …this is what everyone gets, usually. And as he's been taught for years, Armin believes in bowing his head as long as he does not get into trouble.

So, as Eren takes back his previous seat, a mindless small talk begins. Because there is nothing else to be talked about: homework fights, and who sucks whose dick, usual high school chat. Mikasa stares at Eren absent-mindedly, noticing as he seems to instigate the discussion more and more: he moves too much, raises his voice and shakes his head only to hear the clinking of his earring: popular rebel clown type.

" _Mika, I'll love you forever. I'll be the kite and I'll let you pull my strings. And if this life will win the fight and we'll become slaves in a suit, I'll let you cut me and throw my bits to the titans. " his voice was subtle in her ear as they were embracing on a rooftop, their friends all around them, either passed out drunk or still singing, and the sun was just coming out and they were still up, full of life, and Mikasa was gazing at all the rooftops and her feet were ready to jump all over them. Bottles of alcohol were lying around, along with dirty rugs and a record-player. Connie had his zipper open while Sasha had whipped cream all over her face, Jean was in her lap while Armin tried to play the guitar... It seemed like it was the first time she saw the sun as gorgeous as that sunrise, so she started to yell in happiness, Eren was spinning her around, and in that moment the sun, the sky with a few stars left on it, the rooftops, the faint love of everyone, and the whole universe seemed like it could fit right in her heart without much trouble. Nothing was as big as her soul and in her heart 10 supernovas were exploding per second. Eren started to pull her into an up-beat dance, the others were laughing or playing some guitar strums, one last time to love before titans will show them how hard life bites…_

But that was long ago…Mikasa thinks looking down. She isn't 16 anymore. She jumps from the window still and grabs Eren by the ear in spite of everyone's laughs and Eren's protest.

"I thought the great, out of ordinary minds don't spoil their mouth with stupid gossips" and in an instant, Eren looks down and shuts up, a miracle for once. "Let's get going before someone catches us, it's Jean's turn to pull us out of the shit and I'm not in the mood for detention." She leaves the bathroom, Eren by her side as the rest follow suit just as the bell rings.

"Besides, I like the new teacher; it's something about his that says more than basic titan-schooled boring teacher." Mikasa says, linking her arm with Armin's.

"Yeah! He's actually a sadist!" Sasha jumps.

"Will you shut it, food-head? I bet he's something cool, like some small leader of the Scouts!" Armin says over excited, covering Sasha's voice. But as soon as the words leave his mouth, a hand slaps his neck rather hard.  
"You idiot! Stop saying that out loud! Or you want to spend the night in a titan jail like we did last year?! It's forbidden to talk about any titan resistance!"

"Still, there is something fishy about our homeroom teacher…" Eren pauses to analyse.

_On the first period:_

" _Good morning class. My name is Levi Ackerman and I'm your new homeroom and philosophy teacher, and this year, I'm gonna be your worst nightmare." Everyone looked to each other perplexed, so much for formal introduction… Mikasa had heard however of young teachers like him trying to be brave, casual or just plain different, and in less then a month the principal put them to their place. Mr Smith was a real pain in the ass and had a way to make sure things were going his way, so Mikasa wasn't buying this nonchalant attitude. Fucking government minion._

_Mr. Ackerman was walking through the desks as he was the center of attention, his hands clasped around his back, his hair so dark and eyes like a storm, Mikasa rested her head on her palm, muttering to herself how the girls would start having daddy issues again._

" _What's your name?" he asked facing a young boy._

" _Reiner Braun sir!"_

" _And yours?" he said turning to another one._

" _Krista Lenz, sir!"_

" _And your name please?"_

" _Sasha Blaus, sir!"_

" _Where did you learn Sasha?"_

" _At the 104th Central School before Shinganshina High, sir"_

_He turned around at this point, facing everyone in his gaze before continuing his stroll._

" _But do you know who I am?"_

" _Yes, you're Socrate!" Jean said rising up before the whole class started a quiet laugh._

" _Ah, yeah, that is how the kids call me" he made a lengthy pause" but do you know who Socrates was, the real one?"_

" _Yes!" said Connie rising up "A great Italian writer!" and the whole class erupted in a heartfelt loud laughing fit._

" _See? They don't seem to agree with you…"He looked down and continued._

" _Everyone, take out a piece of paper!" his deep voice echoed and in that moment, no one was even breathing "How about a pop quiz as an introduction gift?"_

" _At homeroom class?" A girl asked half surprised half annoyed._

_He raised his eyebrow as pupils were pulling out notebook pages as slowly as possible trying to pass the time. "Write down your name, class and date. And yes dear, to whoever looked so perplexed, a test in homeroom teachings, how about that? Or does any of you think that a high school life should involve only questions in chemistry or algorithms?" and Mr. Ackerman didn't fail to notice the subtle smile of the alpha trio, especially Eren's, who turned around to capture his teacher's gaze with his own surprised one._

" _The theme of your paper: How would I want my homeroom teacher to be? You have 10 minutes before the bell rings" he muttered before going to the front desk, dropping in the chair and putting his feet on the table, bizarre indeed._

"Something fishy indeed…" Jean agrees with him for once.

After the first day of school was finally over, Eren is talking to Mikasa in the park near the school. Her hand is grasping his arm firmly, and they stay closer than it should be allowed, because he likes to take risks and she lets him. Because he is not bothered by what everyone thinks. But she does, and she lets him do as he pleases anyway. While his eyes are pleading, hers look like an incoming storm.

"I missed you more and more as the days were passing _there_ " he reaches for her scarf, and Mikasa almost lets him, until they are interrupted by some cute ditzy girl with long lashes.

"Hey Eren, I really wanted to talk to you…you know, about tonight?"She takes a quick glance at the other girl and asks without too much care "oh, am I interrupting something?" and Mikasa feels her blood boiling and the storm on the verge of starting, so she slaps his hand away from her. "Yes! YOU ARE INTERRUPTING! And you..." she throws daggers at Eren "you're still the man-whore you always were!" she turns around and she knows what's coming. Him chasing away the girl, grabbing her hand and spinning her around before they are close enough for him to drop his guard right before her eyes. And she will see him without his superiority, stripped from pride, he will tell her he is sorry, that she knows where his heart is and that he puts more affection in a handshake with Armin than anything with that girl . And she will believe him, because she can't stand to see him suffering and because she knows he'll take them both home and give her what she needs: his touch and his embrace, and an hour when she feels like she's cared for before going back to the same old story.

Not this time tho, she frowns and picks up the pace, throwing her backpack away and getting as far from them as possible. She takes turns, randomly, and ends up in the school corridors where she deliberately knocks a flower pot over. she hears steps of heavy boots behind her, and she wants to run away, endlessly, on fields and over rivers and to the other side of the world. And she would do just that, if not for her heart that was…

"what the hell Mikasa?! What was that all about?" his yells fall on deaf ears as her breathing accelerates. She does want to do this, and her heart goes on fire, and it's so against her being that…

"Auch! What the fuck?!" and the sound of her palm against his cheek persists for a few more minutes in her ears.

"you tell me what the fuck this is about! I'm tired of thinking you can get the easy way out with me! You never think of me more than a hiding place to go when people don't want you anymore!" and her screaming is truly horrible, like some hurt animal who doesn't find peace to lick its wounds.

"that girl doesn't mean a flying fuck, and you know that! Mika, does it bother you so much I'm not sticking my tongue down your throat when we are at school?"

"NO! Not this, again! Eren, I'm bothered by the fact you're the chief coward of the cowards, you preach every day like some illuminated savior about having the guts to fight this titan plague around us, to fight for freedom and never just swallow and let others decide for you, and yet this is exactly what you do because you're not brave enough to do what your heart tells you!"

"You know very well I do it for both of us and because I love you more than I care to be seen with a beautiful girl around!"

"But that's exactly the thing!" she punches him into his shoulder "you don't love me! Not even a bit! You only love that I'm always the badass girl, smart and tough but when I'm with you I follow you like a puppy and mold like clay over everything you want! You love the control. You only love that I'm yours and that no matter how bad you fuck up you know you have some dumb bitch you can rely on to save you. Because when you drop this misunderstood rebel façade, you know I am the only one who can accept you like you truly are, with cliché ideas and stupid dreams! You're never gonna win this fight against them, you blind prick! You'll only lose, and for starters, you lost me !" she turns around, her tears swallowing her face, her nose running, thinking she might drown any second.

"Baby, don't be like that, come on…I'll…I'll take you home and buy you snacks and I'll do whatever you want, just…" Eren drops his shoulders, out of smart words, drained by this girl not from this grey world.

"No. and it's final. I'm not your baby.

Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve said, everything I’ve fought for was to bring myself closer to you.” Her voice gradually rose until it was a desperate howl “ And you, you just toss me aside whenever someone more special takes an interest in you“ the fat tears were already rolling down her face were breaking Eren’s heart.

“What are you talking about? “ He muttered in embarrassment.

“the woman from the beach, professor Erwin, our homeroom teacher. Everyday you come at me with: Mika, Mr Ackerman is so cool, today he talked about German nihilism. Mika, when will Erwin ask me to join the Rebellion? Mika, you won’t believe what I did **there** to get a creativity boost. That’s all I hear when I have to clean your mess and pick up the pieces.” She paused to look at him with a frown and a deadly glare and continued.

“ Why don’t you ask Mr Ackerman to hold you close at night? Why doesn’t Mr. Erwin wipe your tears when sadness hits you? I have waited and waited for years for you and I’m so fed up trying to save an idiot from himself.” She yelled with desperation, fatigue and frustration in her voice.

“This whole mess is your fault, but your head is too far up your ass to even admit it. I turned to others with a broken heart, because of you, you dumb fuck. Because I got sick of being a second choice for you. Everyone only sees me as your vicious lapdog.”

“Mika, everyone’s opinion is shit”

“No, that’s the problem Eren. They are right. You don’t want to be with me, I’m only conveniently here. You don’t even bother to read the paragraphs I show you, even though you know they are about you or my feeling for you. You only search for me when everyone is tired of your ramblings about how much you hate the Titans or how much you admire that place from the sea. No matter what, your sister-but-not-quite is always in the mood for your tantrums. Is it such a bad thing to wish you’d stop toying with me and face the music?”

I am so much more than your baby. I'm a warrior, a lover, a thinker. I cry, I swear and I smoke too much. I keep my freedom close to my soul, I am vulnerable, I suffer and I love. I am more than a girl with a stone heart. I am brave dreamer. But you, you are shit Eren…" and with that she walks away, wanting with every fiber of her being for Eren to come after her and tell her something sweet like how their love isn't meant for the eyes of those normies.

Of course, he doesn't.

So she walks out in the school yard, half proud and half dying. There, she sees Annie Leonhart, smoking a Davidoff on the steps. She is in the same class with her, but mostly no one dares to knock on her ice cage she has around herself. Her blue eyes turn around to face her crying face, so Mikasa sighs and plops down next to the quiet girl. She's the daughter of a titan police officer, really dangerous and her father could probably beat you on political reasons if you look at her the wrong way. Not like she needs it, anyway.

Mikasa sits uncomfortably close to her, snatches the cigarette from her hand and takes a long drag. Her make up is probably smudged and she looks probably like she's been through some shit. Most important, she knows people like her should be kept at a distance, especially if you value your little freedom of speech that is left in this shitty country. But today she is pissing on the general opinion, and she will talk to this girl if she wants to. Especially now. Annie looks at her, and her blue eyes are cold, but very calm too, and they look like a resting spot Mikasa has been searching for. Because no one cares for the resting spot of the designated mother of the wounded, right? And as she looks around her, Mikasa sees less and less of the _green_ trees, _green_ grass and _green_ uniforms, and instead, there are all kind of forms like the _blue_ sky, the _blue_ veins on her arm, the _blue_ flowers and the _blue_ jeans, the blue water bottles… _blue_ ….like everything is blue. The warmest color in this afternoon.

"Annie, don't you think sadness is sadder than is happiness happy?" and she hopes she makes sense this time.

"you tell me…" and as they sit close, Mikasa doesn't mind being vulnerable again.


	5. Levi: The Grand Inquisitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Grand Inquisitor is not teoretically a book, it's a fragment from The Karamazov Brothers, I suggest reading it, it has no connection to this chapter other than being mentioned. but then again, enjoy the stark contrast between a happy ooc Levi and dull, bitter one.
> 
> We get a flashback involving you! We find out your name, ahhh or should I say your alias? Your nickname...whatever.
> 
> And since Levi is a writer and Farlan is a painter (as by mentioned in the first chapter) Guess which form of art you embody?

~The dull Present~

“The numbers are on the rise. Every day, dozens of caballines come down with glanders. The situation is getting out of control and the experts suggest assisted death.” I type down in the deserted room. I pull out a cigarette from my jacket and light it up, the familiar taste hitting my mouth. The smoke rises in the air as I take one last look at my the latest article written with some special individuals on my mind.

The high school lab is empty of students for now, since everyone is currently on recess and will not bother me for a while. I sigh and try so hard to be engrossed in my paper, because every time I look at my surroundings, a deep feeling of disgust and angst washes over me like a cold shower. Everything looks like a cruel war just ended and the great depression started. The chemicals on the shelves are either dry or expired, the sinks haven’t been working for years and I will get some bile in my mouth if I dare to look at the moldy, washed out, full of fly excrement portraits of some scientists. This is exactly what Goya would paint if he lived in our time.

The sound of the typewriter dominates the whole atmosphere, while a few books about equine physiology lay around me. Alas, it’s a quiet place and I can write my next work in the primordial silence I need.

”Are you seriously smoking in a high school lab with an inflammable substance not even 3 inches away from you?” A high-pitched yet unfeminine voice makes me jump out of my skin. As I was saying, an **almost** primordial silence. My colleague’s face pops right by my side, with zero regards about personal space or boundaries. Her hair tickles the side of my face and her shoulder dig into my back without mercy. This lunatic will cause me a heart attack soon enough. Well, that’s Hanji for you. She tries to grab the cigarette from my hand, but her eyes drift to the paper still attached to the writing machine.

”Why are you writing about equine diseases? Are you a veterinarian?” She frowns and leans over my shoulder further.

”You abnormal woman, it’s not about horses’ diseases per se. It’s a metaphor regarding the crimes against humanity of the Military Police. Their symbol is an unicorn, so I’ve been working for the past month on making this subtle enough so that the censorship won’t notice it. You always take things too literal.” I try to explain some sense into her thick skull. She just shrugs and walks away from me.

Perhaps I’m making a fool out of myself again. Hanji was hired here way before I landed in this mess, so she knows how to be valuable to the Scouts better than I do. Back then, she was the first one to put up with my tantrums and we have been tolerating each other ever since.

”I’m a scientist, what do you expect? I trust the clear words, numbers and facts” she talks with pride in her voice and I held back a smirk.

”Well, _scientist_ is a rather big word for a high school biology teacher. Calm down, Newton, before you blow up the school.” I sigh and go back to my article, giving it a spell check.

”It’s you who is going to blow up if you keep smoking in here! One little spark from your cancer stick in that jar will cause a small Hiroshima in here” and she points out the jar with a complicated name next to my right arm.

Hanji is truly a crazy, vicious woman. Just what the doctor ordered for the Scouts...The other members from the Survey Corps told me that Erwin bailed her out of jail after she was caught by the police in one of those weird gender mixing depraved parties or something. Not like I trust those rumors anyway, and even if they were true, it’s not like I am the saint here either ...so who gives a shit?

„Please, it’s like you don’t even know the state of public propriety. Don’t tell me you trust the Titans to make something actually useful...” Hanji, however, simply doesn’t give up.

”That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be careful! There are kids in here, for God’s sake.”

”I bet my month’s ratio of bread nothing will happen if I drop it in this jar.” I mutter, squint my eyes and give her a defiant look. I held my cigarette above the recipient and I almost feel her rolling her eyes.

”I am perfectly aware of your artistically ”craving for the sweet relief of death” aura, but you can’t be talking seriously. Levi, I thought I was reckless, but hell you are plain stupi -OHMYGOD”

She doesn’t finish as I drop my cigarette in the jar with a flame symbol on it. The liquid inside is a muddy green and we both wait for some disaster. The tension is so heavy, and I start to be a little scared. I wonder for a nanosecond how did I make this far with this stupid brain and with no real life skill when...

Of course nothing happens and the cigarette is put out by the liquid goo. I snort, as if something would ever work in this place...

”Good luck with your subtle article, Levi,” she breaks the silence, ” no one is going to understand it anyway.” I scoff at her

” Even if it makes it to the newspaper, how many are truly going to notice your efforts? Three people? Maybe four? Not everyone is living in the highest spheres of hints and suggestions.” she takes some photographs from her desk and shoves them into her bag.

”Erwin likes my article” I tell her trying to lick my own wounded pride.

”Erwin pretends to like everything you write because he doesn’t want to lose his second in command. Everyone knows this regiment would be finished if you went back to...you know” And in that moment everything I ever revealed to Hanji about myself comes back to bite me tenfold. Well, that’s what you get for hurting her precious scientist pride.

” Forgive me then, oh wisest one, for ever doubting your ancestral wisdom. How can I, a mere philosophy teacher, understand anything about your rules and data?” I spat with so much irony in my voice that I make her laugh. She grabs her bag and coat and slams down something right by my nose. It’s a radio.

”Keep your half-hearted apology for yourself, Socrates. I have important business to do while you chase wild geese. Or should I say horses? Anyway, see you tonight at the meeting, hope you figure out by then how to take that stick out of your ass and relax a little.” She waves at me and slams the door down with such force I am surprised the whole wall doesn’t collapse behind her... After I watch her leave, I get back to my writing just as the radio plays some song I don’t admit to like.

 _And in my hour of darkness_ _  
She is standing right in front of me  
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.  
Let it be, let it be._

I bite my lip and try not to think about it. I try, I really do, because those memories...they are just too much and so far away....I would wonder sometimes if they truly did happen...

_~10 years ago, in that faraway place~_

_”My darling dearest Fate,_

_I don’t know which game you are playing._

_I don’t know how everything is going to fail and turn to ashes._

_I don’t know how I will get back to a gray and bitter, numb life again._

_I don’t know and I don’t care at all. This week finds me good, yet on another writer’s block. I have been continuously crossing out phrases on the typewriter for a while , my essays are on hold with no sign of clever words to say, but this time, I can’t be bothered about it . My wish to write a smart analysis on Thomas Dylan poetry must be put aside for now, and everybody in this house never miss a chance to scold me for having lost a certain drive I used to have._

_But, to be honest with you , all the poetry I want to write about is right here in front of me. She is perfect and as she sits with her naked back turned to me, I consider writing a 1000- word ode dedicated to her ribs. Her smile puts a shame on the classics, her eyes humiliate the romantics and her skin makes the postmodernists look like a bad joke. I am, as the great minds say, sardonically screwed because of her._

_Because, for once, everything is as it should be. And I have no clever comebacks, no shitty jokes and no grunting noises regarding the loud yet calm mess that I’m in. I’m TRULY not bothered by the dirty dishes, the full to the brim ashtray or the big pile of clothes on the floor._

_Because, for once, the mess on the outside is a mirror to the peace I have on the inside._

_Because, for once, everything falls into place. I’m not wondering without direction anymore, I’m neither lost in life nor scared of living it. The sea is familiar, the music is familiar, and the warmth of her back is very familiar. The lack of food and the plethora of alcohol is also very familiar._

_Because, for once, I’m happy. And I know you are going to kick me hard in the balls and take back everything I care about and more, but I told you already._

_I don’t mind. I’m the one cheating on fate this time._

_Because, after all, it’s better to have a bitter happiness than a gray, dull life._ ”

I lean down to press a kiss to the back of her neck, when I am snapped out of the spell with brute force. Guess I will finish this letter later.

”Levi, it’s the fifth time I tell you to stop changing your pose. And keep those papers against her back, for God’s sake, otherwise we will sit here until the water is freezing and taking care of your sick asses is the last thing I want.” Farlan says as his paintbrush runs across his canvas. One hour ago, he walked in on us sitting in the bathtub and told us not to move, he returned then with his easel and painting oils and sat on a stool that has seen better days. So here we are:

We are sitting in what was supposed to be a bubble bath if we had better soap. I guess beggars can’t be choosers, especially when I wouldn’t even choose anything else to be different anyway. The water is lukewarm, her impossible long soft hair is up in a bun, leaving her neck bare and I am hunched behind her, using her pretty back as support to write this dreamy letter. The words are messy because of her spine, the edges of the paper are damp and the fountain pen I used has stained my wrists and fingers in deep blue ink. She is playing with a black small portable radio, changing the frequencies until she finally finds something nice:

 _And in my hour of darkness_ _  
She is standing right in front of me  
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.  
Let it be, let it be._

She sings along quietly, almost like a whisper, while her voice makes her skin, my skin, the water and all the atoms in the room vibrate in pleasure. We have goose bumps all over us and as I sit with her in that tub, surrounded by pots of spider-plants and English Ivy, the tiles are begging for a good scrub and we look like a demon next to a diaphanous creature. Guess which is which…

“Farlyyy, why don’t you ask Isabell to take a picture of us and use it as reference like any normal painter has been doing since 1890?” My girl says frowning and pouting in bittersweet annoyance. We both turn our head to face Farlan who is so focused on his work you could probably slap him and get no reaction.

“Because I’m trying to do it under pressure like a truly talented artist. Where would we be if Rembrandt waited for the invention of the photo?” He puts some black on the canvas and stares at us like a hawk “. If by the end of the month I’m still an ordinary painter, you have my world I will poison myself with these paints.” He mutters with the bottom lip in his mouth.

“I thought art was supposed to viciously tear down the old, outdated days we have, don’t you think so, Levi?” She turns around to look at me with two big orbs as endless as the pits of hell.

“Oh my, look who is talking. May I remind you who in this house tried to eat bad meat last week because they wanted to play the piano sick with trichinosis like Mozart? You are not the brightest star, dear” Farlan talks back like a wounded animal and she laughs not too loud, not too forced. 

Luckily she resumes her singing soon enough, before everything has a chance to fade into an argument.

We haven’t even bothered to turn back the watches. In our nice, crowded little house it has been 3 pm for 7 colorful days and I couldn’t ask for something bette...

”Everyone, come quickly, it’s about to start!” a red-shaped tornado yells while slamming the door open. Isabell is breathing heavily with a wide grin on her face, and her yell wakes up all of us from this spell like a ray of sunlight when you’re very, very hangover. Farlan puts his brushes aside, and me and her get out of the tub shivering and wrap bath robes around our pruned skin. The three of us are quick to follow the steps of our youngest girl.

Isabell jumps up and down while Farlan doesn’t even try to calm her spirit . She has such a pure heart and she looks like any moment she is going to spin around and transform into Peter Pan and fly out the window to Neverland.

I chuckle at the thought, but I have a feeling that in 50 years she is still going to spread her gooey spirit all over our bad joints and grey hair. She is the nicest child of this world and I feel guilty that we all expect her to act mature and understand Platon or some bullshit. I and Farlan used to really make fun of her until we realized we are the dumb bitches for expecting a 16 year old to understand the French Revolutionist Wave. We were really ridiculous...

We reach the tiny, minuscule, excuse of a TV in the other room. We plop down in front of an impossible small screen and silence if deafening. The TV antenna is fixed, there are figures moving on the screen and it’s a wonder this thing is still working considering how many times we kicked it, fell over it, and there was also that time with me and my girlfriend...

”There it bloody is, took them long enough!” Farlan mutters between his teeth and lights himself a cigarette. We are all so squished to see the screen we can barely breathe, but it’s a price we pay with smiles on our faces.

Two dove wings, one blue and the other white, overlapping each other, appear on the screen. They sit in front of a cross and announce the commercials starting before returning to their usual schedule. Wings of Freedom is perhaps the most beloved TV station in the whole Paradis, partly because it is forbidden and you have to spend precious time finding the right frequency. It’s not like we really care about the Survey Corps. They talk all day about manifests, urging us to fight the Titans, making us feel guilty with their cheap bravery and pride over some stolen documents.

It’s not like we dislike them, everyone wants to throw over the regime one way or another, it’s just...after all this years of empty promises, loud chants and failed revolutions, we more or less embraced the comfort of this hidden place by the sea. It’s easier, after all, to feel freedom through a western forbidden book than by rotting away in political jail.

~The Present~

”Any objections, fellow colleagues?” Erwin’s voice booms in the teacher’s room. Everything is in complete darkness, like all the secret meetings the Survey Corps holds. Our leader can’t risk us getting caught, so all the precautions are required. We are already decimated, we are few and we are weakened and we can’t afford losing anyone anymore. So here we are, ten people around a big, cherry wood table, with nothing but worries to feast on.

The planning and manifesto always happen in pitch black, at the school, deep into the night. The next objectives consist mainly of discovering some shady business the church does, keeping a close eye on the students whose parents work for the Military Police and sealing some deals with gun smugglers. The usual. I sit on Erwin’s left side and I wonder how much longer are we going to ignore the real issues. I can smell the tension in the air, and I’m sure he can too. There is one thing we haven’t discussed yet.

”Sir, I have one issue. ” A relatively new member says. Those brats seem to have a secret fetish to make these meetings as long as possible and to prevent me from going home to enjoy a nice cup of tea. He’s lucky I can’t see his face, really.

“Are we planning to do something about Mike’s disappearance? We can’t abandon a comrade like that…” and there it is. He says what everyone has been thinking for the past week. Mike Zacharias was captured on the last raid we held, by those cursed Titan pigs. The way he struggled in their arms while we couldn’t do anything except run like cowards…it was sickening. It still makes my guts churn. And believe me; no one liked Erwin’s silence about this whole ordeal.

“I have been thinking about this day and night. If you believe that Mike’s disappearance doesn’t bother me, you are idiots. But we have no lead, no clue. We can’t afford to run around like headless chicken, and that’s final.” I can hear our commander release the softest sigh. We are all tired and want to go home.

“I thought this regiment was not about running like cowards…” the voice in the dark angrily objects. I give him 3 months before he learns to keep his mouth shut, that is, unless the police shows him a permanent dose of discipline.

“This disobedience will not be tolerated! NO, we are not running like cowards, we are spending our resources wisely! What are you proposing? That the whole regiment just storms into a random political prison, so that the shoot all of us at once and finish the Scouts for good?” and with that, it seems that the meeting is over. These gatherings always seem to be the same: we talk about damages and loss, we leave feeling miserable, and then, the next day, Erwin manages to charm us all over again with some well-placed manipulation. Freedom blah-blah, humanity needs us, fighting for our dreams makes us better than everyone, so on and so on. I already know what he is going to say even before he opens his mouth, yet, for some reason, I never leave his side. Just like a scared lapdog.

It’s because I’m afraid. Afraid of being on my own. Afraid of working for nothing, afraid of being strong without something to be worth the sacrifice. I can’t even make it to the convenience store without an in-depth analysis for reason, will and meaning. And our commander figured out a long time ago what I crave and gives me tiny sugar-coated pieces of purpose with every meeting he holds.

If Erwin didn’t manage to make sure I never leave his side, I would certainly go back to…

~10 Years ago~

It’s just... humanity really likes the taste of the forbidden apple. Myself included.

The screen goes black and we finally indulge in our treat with our eyes as big as saucers: the ultimate reason we still have this TV and also the name of the book I will one day publish: the Marlboro commercial starts. It feels just like we see it from the first time, how some man plays with his horse, how he reeks of freedom and rides nonchalantly through fields, woods and other dreamlands. I can almost feel the wild breeze and the endlessness I righteously crave. He definitely lacks cowardice as he befriends that big black beast, and we all take a deep breath as the commercial hits its peak. You can bet that every kid in this country wants to be the Marlboro man, girls included, adults included, titan subordinates included. I am totally bewitched by this capitalist commercial that probably annoys the people overseas. As quickly as it started, we see the sunset that marks the end and the Marlboro logo appears on the screen. Even if I wanted, I couldn’t find a pleasure as guilty as this commercial and since I’ve seen it the first time I have been left so disappointed every time I drag a smoke from my cigarettes.

With each drag, I still hope to wake up on a horse in a foreign field with _her_ behind me, hugging my waist .

We need so little to be truly mesmerized. We all release a pleased gasp and fall backwards on the rug, staring at the ceiling. I sigh and hug my baby to my chest and she tangles her legs with mine. Farlan and Isabell scoot closer to us and I bet we look like a modern Renaissance painting with all those dreamy looks on our young faces. Isabell is delighted. Farlan is so happy. My lover looks like she is ready to float and I imagine the cover of my future book so hard I can almost see it in my hand and smell the fragrance of the freshly printed pages.

I know I should scold my miserable brain for even daring to think it, for daring to think that this imbecile regime will be defeated one day and this world will be Titan-free and that I will live to see it happen. But I will, _someday_ , write a ton of pages and people will read my work , not only those who live in _Here_ , this place lost in colors and with no clocks working, but millions and eons will read my diary, sigh and think ’this book is everything I wanted to say but didn’t know how or had the guts to do it’. And they will put me next to Anne Frank and write my quotes on the back of their photos. I’m ashamed of wanting this, but I can’t help myself :

A deep, dark, crimson red hard cover with gold around the edges.

In the center, with sturdy letters, it writes _THE MARLBORO MAN OR THE PROMISE OF WESTERN FREEDOM by Levi Ackerman._

On the first page, after a short biography, a few words are written:

_Dedicated to Farlan, for never letting me regret my choices,_

_To Isabell, for showing me an ungodly amount of kindness,_

_And to my dearest wife (_ I am an imbecile for even daring to dream this), _for holding my hand in this never ending chaos I gladly embrace now._

And then, the rest will be history and pretentious assholes will butcher every word I will write in pompous literature study sessions.

What a dream, really.

”I’m buying a horse right after we overthrow the government!” Isabelle mumbles and buries her face in the other girl’s bare back.

_My girlfriend_ laughs whole heartily and leans a little to whisper in my ear:

”Well, I can’t say we are all capable of taming horses. Especially our Socrates right here.” And she places the sweetest peck on my earlobe. I can’t resist a mean comment so I respond with a nice placed line.

”I don’t think it will be much of a struggle considering I managed to tame a bunch of dumb fucks like you and make you act half civilized” and I throw her a small smirk. She smiles back but I feel something is not quite right with everyone. Have I just declared war with the most stubborn woman on Earth?

Before I knew it, I am pinned down by a meanie with dark-lined eyes wearing a red bath robe eaten by moths. Farlan and Isabell hold down my limbs while _SHE_ straddles me viciously. Her smell is like a sea breeze mixed with candy liqueur and I am really starting to wonder whether she had parents of her own or she just appeared from some sea foam of _this place_ like some kind of perverted, reckless version of Aphrodite.

Not that she isn’t just that.

”Mr. Ackerman, I think we really need to take you away from my bookcase, ’cause it looks like you are starting to develop a superiority complex from all the philosophy books you think you understand. You are no leader dear...”

”You are nothing but a big bro!” Isabell interferes with the same enthusiasm. That’s it folks, I am utterly doomed and this is my demise.  
” Talking about taming your comrades...you are just as wild and giddy as the rest of us! Isn’t this why you came _here_? To escape the iron fist of the titans? You don’t like taming at all, Levi, so you really, really shouldn’t enjoy doing something so horrible to us...” the woman above me says, her voice really low and sultry.

”Well, someone was definitely having a different opinion about taming last night, you brat...” I manage to reply while struggling to get out of my friends’ grasp. Farlan really tries to hold back his laughter while Isabell looks like she finally realized where all that weird sounds come from.

” Would you look at that Farlan, Isabell? Seems like our dearest **captain** is really pushing on my nerves. I really think he’s in for some nice, little punishment. What do you think guys?” She whispers mischievously while the others give her a small and eager nod.

”Levi, you better say your prayers while you still can...” Farlan jokes while he holds one of my arms and legs in place. I see her raising her red-painted claws at me and I feel shivers down my spine.

”You idiot, if you think for one ...second...to...tickle me....I swear I’ll...” I manage to say those empty threats , that, obviously, fall into deaf ears.

”You’ll what honey? Hmmm?” she half- moans while giving me a look that most likely puts a snake’s gaze to shame. ” You’ll throw me some of Socrates’ ancient wisdom? Say that I’m ignorant for not knowing Dostoevsky’s The Grand Inquisitor by heart? Call me a bad girl?”

This is it. This is how I die.

”Oh baby...” She continues.

”RHEA PLEASE DON’T TICKLE ME!” I yell in desperation. If she weren’t wanted by the Military Police, those filthy Titans should really consider putting her in the position of The Colossal Dictator. She is truly amazingly terrifying and I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but... she makes being her prey actually seem fun, especially in...other contexts.

”... I don’t know how to be good...”She finishes her declaration of war and all hell breaks loose as 3 idiots all start digging their fingers into my sides and neck. There is absolutely no use in resisting and I have to succumb to her enchantments again and again as I have been doing so naturally since I came _here._

. Everything has been so tranquil this week, I feel high and lost like child in a field of tulips. In our tiny fragile house, everything is in order. There is a mess in all the rooms, with poems on the walls, papers and drawings on a fridge that works whenever it pleases, and you can never get lost. I always know where to find Farlan, Isabell or our broken mugs. If there is a bigger storm around, sometimes the sea enters the house and here goes a whole fun fiasco you only see in stories. It’s a pleasant mix of enjoying the thunders and wondering how long will it be until the floor will swell and crack for good. I never could’ve imagined that the Garden of Eden is made of bad wood, coffee stains and empty cheap booze bottles.

_I know, my dearest Fate, you will ruin this, but I will bow down to you completely, as I’m doing right now, and openly put my trust in you. Because you might disagree, but I still know you too well. You have the peculiar beauty of a coffin hanged by a night sky._

_You have a rotten innocence, a floral-scented guilt that doesn’t let me breathe._

_You’re the perfect mix between a graveyard and a paradise._

_Rhea, you are the Fate I always wanted to surrender to._

_Yours, truly forever,_

_Levi_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if the analogy is not clear enough, Rhea (YOU) are Levi's fate.  
> the pic is not mine. I literally found it on google.  
> review, comment, complain, ask questions, whatever.


	6. Mikasa: Paradise Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a chapter about mikasa. I know it has another pairing as the main theme, but don't worry, on the teenager's part, the tagged pairing (eremika) is endgame.  
> ENjoy however, regime-related homophobia and Mikasa being more than a badass.  
> This chapter contains Levi too, so Levi fans, don't skip! I see you!

Mikasa

That night, Mikasa did not return home. She had walked with Annie on the streets of their small town up until sunrise. They had their school bags over their shoulder and they smelled like bubblegum. Everything tasted like a surreal peace, the streets were empty, the windows closed and their spirits free from trivial matter. Annie looked at the night sky and took a deep breath: the city lights allowed them to see almost to no stars.

”And Mika, believe me, I can’t wait to go to college, study Literature all day long and get out of this town full of ...”

” idiots high on mediocrity?” Mikasa replied and bumped slightly into her. She felt that night in September was pulled out straight from a French film. Annie’s father had always wanted for her to join the army. She wanted to do as she’d been told, but in the end…she felt delighted when her father told her a literature teacher was still a respectable job.

They both chuckled and linked arms with one another. There was nobody else on those streets and everything was so strange, so different, so full of life, it was like they were at the brink between an endless number of worlds. The moon shone on them with thousands of possibilities. Mikasa liked Annie’s black leather trench coat and Annie liked Mikasa’s calm yet electric voice. 

They stumbled on rustic candy shop along the way. It was obviously closed, but a few tables were still left outside. Annie let her go and grabbed two chairs from a nearby pile.

“Come on, sit” and she dropped the two chairs down by one of the tables. Mikasa followed her instructions, and the other girl sat too. The black-haired girl took a cigarette from her backpack and looked around her: a nice small table with Annie at the other end, a small street, some dull city lights and the smoke from her cigarette rising in the air.

“What a romantic setting we have…” Mikasa whispered.

“Perfect for a date, right?” Annie rested her chin in her hand and smirked at her. The other mimicked her moves and also smiled.

“Well, I wouldn’t really call it a date” she teased Annie.

“I see, why not then?”

“Well, for starters, there are no refreshments.”

“I beg to differ!” And Annie took a thermos out of her bag. She poured semi-cold tea and passed it to Mikasa. The other girl crossed her legs and grabbed the offering but at the same time, Annie reached for Mikasa’s cigarette and stole it from her fingers. Taking a long drag, Annie raised an eyebrow.

“An eye for an eye, wouldn’t you say so? ”

“Does my cold tea pleased you into thinking this is a nice date?” Annie said mischievously. Mikasa could only nod.

“Agreed. So, what are people talking about on a date, anyway?”

“Like I give a shit about a bunch of normies… What do _you_ want to talk about?” Annie asked the other girl and put her legs on the table. Mikasa managed to sneak a peek on her long legs, clad in fishnets tights. They were so pale and intriguing.

“No one asked me about that before.” She blushed and hid her face in the red scarf around her neck. It was a gift from Eren from a long time ago and although they were currently on bad terms, she refused to take it off, like the widowers who still kept their wedding rings and never remarried.

“What kind of friends would not be interested in you? Looks to me you’ve been hanging with the wrong crowd then.”

“This is the pot calling the kettle back. At least my friends are not kissing the Titan Party in the ass 24/7” It was true. Annie used to hang around with the teenagers who volunteered for the Party, spend the weekends at Young Titan Committee or some bullshit like that, and always made sure to spread some propaganda with every breath. Reiner and Berthold were a pain in the ass. Especially when they pretended to like you first. At least Annie was naturally unfriendly to everyone.

“I hang out with them only because of my father. He works for the Secret Titan Police. In truth, I would like nothing more than to never see their shit-eating faces again. They are really stupid when you put aside their manipulation skills”

“Seems then you may be just as lonely as me.”

“Yeah…” Annie took a drag out of the cigarette. “Maybe we are not that different after all”

They stood in silence for some time, and not the awkward type. It was a calm type of solitude, their souls were bare on the table, their eyes did the talking. In their world, there was simply no more energy for small talk.

“So, what happened between you and Eren?” Annie asked out of politeness.

“Pff, don’t even ask, cause believe me, I don’t know where to start. I’m just taking a break from him. Might do me good, not being at his service for some time.” Mikasa muttered under her breath.

Annie laughed slightly at her.

“Why do you have an interest in Eren all of a sudden? Don’t tell me you are trying to recruit him for your Titan Youth Association; we both know he is going to bite.”

“Oh, Mikasa, I assure you, I don’t care about him. What I’m interested about…it’s you”

Mikasa frowned and crossed her arms.

“You know I don’t like what you are doing. I’m not fond of the Titans either.” She said with precaution.

“No, no, trust me; I’m not talking about the committee…” And then Annie got to her feet and dragged her chair right next to Mikasa’s. She plopped back down and got closer to the other girl, invading her personal face. She was frozen on the spot as she felt the other’s breath on her face.

Were things supposed to go in that direction? Mikasa felt bad with herself. Annie definitely got the wrong idea about this whole ordeal. She was not there for a rendezvous; she just wanted a break from her green-eyed drama boy. Still, she was not pulling away from Annie; she did not have the power. Because, while the other boys were rude and prosaic, this blonde got under her skin and bit where she was the most vulnerable. Annie served Mikasa the nice illusion that she was worth to be taken interest in.

“I have completely other things in mind…” Annie said and leaned in, closing the space between them. Their lips touched for the longest time.

Mikasa was trapped right into Annie’s web. She was bothered by the fact that every person she found solace in tried to get into her pants. But it did not matter. They were doing something terribly forbidden. The Party had a very strict set of laws that prohibited same-sex relationships. And there she was, receiving a kiss from a devoted member in a closed candy shop. This world was beautiful, but very, very confusing.

The regime promoted the strong and capable icon of womanhood. And Mikasa had always felt the pressure of Eren, her friends and parents, to represent that impenetrable independent woman. So that’s what she did. She swallowed all her needs with bitterness and pretended she was made of plaster.

But loving someone, and being loved back, meant so much for her. The people around her made fun of it all the time, but was not everything she was doing in life a way to be loved a little more? Being kissed back, loved back was Mikasa’s way of seeing color in their sepia-lensed world.

They parted and stared in the other’s eyes for a moment only. Blue met pitch black and thousands of questions regarding reason and sanity were left unanswered. Mikasa grabbed Annie’s head and pulled her back in a bruising, sloppy kiss. For a while, she was going to pretend that this was the love she had wanted from Eren.

~*~

A week had passed since that night. Mikasa was officially in an illegal relationship with her classmate, and the thrill of it wasn’t even the best part. Surely, they couldn’t throw her in jail, she was underage after all, but if they were found out, the regime and the police would surely held her for a not-so-friendly chit-chat at the local station. And hell would break loose at school, which was the worst punishment for sure.

She remembered what happened to Ymir and Historia, some girls from her class who were also rumored to have a not-strictly-platonic relationship. Her group of friends had definitely not said anything about their subtle hand-holding under the desks, but they were found out eventually. They had tried to fight it for a while, but with the teacher’s persecutions and the other student’s constant bullying, the couple had no chance of survival. The derogatory looks and bad marks were too much, so they tried the next best thing: forgetting and surviving. Historia went through 5 boyfriends in a month and Ymir, well, she enrolled in the Titan Youth Committee along with Reiner, Berthold and Annie. And things moved on as if nothing had happened.

Mika’s face did a grimace of disgust and thought that no matter how her story ended, she was not going to apologize to anyone for being herself.

She was brushing her hair in the mirror while she contemplated the situation. She was going to meet Annie at some nice, secluded bakery later. Things were somehow good.

She thought she was finally getting over Eren. They still lived in the same house and sat in the same bench at school though.

She swore each day she was going to forget him for good. But then she saw his pagan gaze and childish smile and swore she was going to forget him…starting tomorrow.

The phone in the living room rang, breaking her stream of thoughts. Mikasa rose fast from her chair and grabbed the phone handle. A deep feminine voice spoke from the other end.

“Hi there” it said.

“Hello Annie. Why did you call? Did something happen? Can’t you make it to our…study meeting?” Mikasa whispered and bit her lower lip in disappointment.

“Oh no, nothing like that. I’m fine…it’s just…I’m home alone tonight.” The other girl held back a gasp and had her eyes wide. “Why don’t you come over instead?” Annie continued in a weird, purring tone. Mikasa knew that voice. It was just like the one Eren used when he had wanted her. But before she had a chance to answer, the other girl hung up quite rudely.

So, she had to make up her mind: stay at home and be safe or jump into the wolf’s mouth.

Mikasa grabbed her coat and put her stuff in a bag

 _The wolf can eat you better anyway_ , she thought and ran out the door.

She was nervous at first, but Annie greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and guided Mikasa to her bedroom. They sat on the bed, Annie’s head in her lap, her pale blue eyes fixed on the other.

“How have you been, dear?” Mika asked her.

“I thought we had no room for small talk. Tell me something interesting “So the black-eyed girl told her about big and small things altogether: her scarf, her family, Milan Kundera, David Bowie, the usual.

When Mika talked about life, Annie asked about hers, when Mikasa talked about films, Annie wondered which one captured the perfect image of the modern misogyny. For every word one of them said, the other replied with the perfect fit. Like those waves from _that place far away_. They were, for a while at least, stuck in a loophole of an endless push and pull.

And so they talked, talked and talked until their mouths were no longer good for talking. And they both sunk into the mattress and did a horrible yet utterly natural thing. It involved a lot of kissing, exploring, touching and moaning, you get it.

Halfway through, Mikasa straddled Annie panting like she had just run a marathon.

„Annie, this is wrong! We could get into real trouble if we are caught! This is illegal, for god’s sake!”

But Annie was having none of it. She grabbed her hair and pushed her back down between her thighs.

„Call it a way to spice up the relationship, then” And so began another satisfying round.

It was true, Mikasa thought, she still loved Eren in a masochistic, hopeless way.

But Annie did that thing with her tongue and _Oh God,_ she forgot about everything.

~*~

„Have you done this before, Annie?” Mika asked with curiosity.

„A few times, nothing special really.” Annie answered with boredom. They were sitting in her baby blue bedroom; half dressed in the bed, sweaty, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Mikasa was intrigued. With Eren, she certainly used to be overwhelmed with jealousy whenever she found out about the other girls in his life. But with Annie, the fact she dared to defy the regime not once, not twice, but many times while keeping a faithful façade to the Party, made Mikasa...terribly aroused. She felt taken under the wing of a defiant, powerful demon. And in that dark place of their forbidden love, she could truly dare to be herself. Bad parts and all.

The next day, Mikasa woke up feeling more rested than ever. Annie had prepared coffee, acted nicely, and even put on some music. They had breakfast (coffee and cigarettes, to be honest) while they held hands. The pick-up was moved temporally in the kitchen and a record was playing.

_Sometimes I feel so happy_

_, But mostly you just make me mad._

_Baby, you just make me mad._

_Linger on, your pale blue eyes._

Annie felt like she was dreaming. She was with a nice person in a bubble where not even her father could reach. Her smile was a little pained, but she handed her a book before Mikasa left her house. A gift, so to speak, to remember that night.

„It’s one of my favorites.” She simply said and the other girl looked at the cover.

 _Paradise Lost._ And Mikasa understood the hint quite clearly.

~*~

Two weeks had passed. Mikasa asked herself every time before she fell asleep when this dream would end. She enjoyed the time spent with Annie so much, she was finally respected, seen as an individual, taken interest in. She felt the efforts were not in vain. Every hand held under the table, every night they sneaked out, every evening on the phone, the never ending hiding; all of it was manifests of a wonderful fight. And the fruits of their labor were the love itself. But good things did not last around her. So, she thought, who would ruin this nice little world they built around them?

Annie did it. Of course she did. And she was as ruthless as Mikasa expected. After two weeks of endless talks on the phone, zero fights and total acceptance, a piece of paper was passed to her in math class. Mika opened it in a flash. It wrote:

_I promise to love you completely in my next life. Forgive me for this one. It’s over._

( _Could have been) Yours, Annie_

Mikasa held her composure like a Spartan for 50 minutes. Why would Annie do this? Did her parents suspected something? Did she not enjoy her anymore? She asked herself a thousand times. The other students were simply caring on with their business about integrals and equations, while she had to endure the world crumbling around her. Of course Annie would do this. Of course she was not worth the risk. The black haired girl held her pencil tightly and wanted to set the school, the city and the whole country on fire. She would save Eren and Armin and watch everything burn with pleasure. Too many times, this regime threw her high in the air only to let her hit the ground helplessly. She was so fed up with things that didn’t kill her and only made her stronger.

When the bell rang, she stormed past Eren, past the others and the teacher and ran. Ran, ran, and ran. She ran down the hallways she knew too well, she ran past the cafeteria that only served gruesome food, she ran past the principal’s office and past the library. Those places were too familiar. She wanted to lose herself with every step, to find unknown places, to rest in a spot from another dimension. She stopped in the girl’s bathroom and locked herself in a stall, but the slur words written on the door were also boringly predictable. She broke down crying and wished to just find a portal to another world where their love was possible and not frowned upon. 

She had expected the betrayal, but it still stung like hell. Not like with Eren, that pain was barely bearable, but she just felt once again, left outside in the cold, so to speak, utterly wounded and helpless, with no explanation. Not worth anything, if she wasn’t wearing the mask they wanted. Being herself looked at that moment like a luxury she simply didn’t have enough cash for.

She thought they could be together for good. Because Annie understood her not so nice parts, that 1% Mika didn’t even get about herself. She couldn’t believe Annie would tell everyone that she’d lost a good friend, when Mika felt like she’d lost a soul mate. She could’ve followed her all her life.

But then reality hit her hard. She realized that just because someone gets you, it doesn’t mean that you’re fit for each other. Life did not work like that.

“ _Mikasa, if I knew the recipe for love, I would have given it to you already”_ she remembered the woman from the sea telling her on her last night _there_.

All they did is a constant contest of who was the coolest, when all she had wanted was for them to be happy while sharing their weaknesses. Maybe, Mikasa thought, she simply loved Annie out of spite. Out of her wish for revolting against the sick Titan regime that had taken away her parents. She believed, for a second only, that if she proved a loved like theirs could prosper in that hideous world, the Titans would admit defeat.

But Mikasa finally felt the spell of love breaking in the darkest hour. Perhaps they should both stop playing the game and face the music: the truth was, Mikasa reminded Annie she was not totally brain-washed by the Government, while Annie…well, she had been all this time a bad substitute for Eren, really. You can’t get over the love of your life in two weeks, even with the help of an amazing girl like Annie. Mika liked the affections, the common interests, the reciprocations, but it wasn’t the real thing. It did not come from the person she wanted to.

She had loved her, but their love was like the sugar without the calories and the alcohol-free beer. Not the real deal.

And her good-for-nothing friends would just yell what a bitch she was, how women were so complicated anyway and drink cheap beer until they would pass out. No one would get them. What a bunch of cavemen…

After a healthy fit of sobbing, Mikasa rose from the toilet seat and out into the world. She could really use a cigarette right now, but the bell rang 10 minutes ago. She dragged her legs slowly, through the empty corridors, some tears still daring to pour down her face. It was simply over as soon as it stared. And everyone had to get back to their places: Mikasa to her predictably rebellious friends, Annie to her Titan-supportive gang. And the girls would pass each other in the hallways from now on and act like nothing had happened. And it would hurt: one day very much, the next day a little less, until finally, where once stood a deep mutual affection would be only scars, ashes and the void.

~*~

Everyone sat in perfect order as the philosophy class was about to start. True to his word, Mr. Ackermann had succeeded to completely charm the kids for the past two weeks. Everyone was all eyes and ears every time he talked about the human being, famous people from the past that shaped the modern way of thinking, different paradoxes and so on.

But the students mostly loved about him that he didn’t give two shits about the curriculum and just did whatever he pleased with his class. It was like a breath of fresh air during that whole grey nightmare that was high school about listening, doing as you’re told, obeying, and so on.

So everyone put up with his weird tantric about order and cleaning in hope he would not leave their class to another teacher. Each time philosophy began, everything was spotless and the stage was ready for him, with the audience mesmerized from the start.

That day, he entered the class while many pair of eyes followed his every move. He sighed and threw nonchalantly the register on the teacher’s desk. His grey suits and white shirt were always ironed and pristine, his haircut on point, and his face clean shaved. But he always sported that bored, neutral look and his eyes had a permanent set of dark circles under them. That was the philosophy teacher for you.

In truth, each time the classes started, he felt like a great actor on stage. And he liked it tremendously: how everyone was paying attention to him, how they thought that whatever he was telling them would really help them in life, how they always had a clever comeback, how everyone saw him as some big guy send from another world to cut the chains holding them captive. They did it so hard he had almost started to believe it too.

Especially some student named Eren. He always sat in the front row with some girlfriend of his, head resting in his hand, with such a dreamy look, Levi was sometimes frightened the kid would fall in love with him. Today however, Levi noticed the chair beside his most eager student was empty. It was odd, but he decided to not press the issue any further, after all, he knew that being a teenager was…a horror show.

“Alright class” he began “before we start dwelling on the matter and the spirit, the two pillars of the existence itself, let’s deal with our own business really quick.” He grabbed some papers from his suitcase and walked closer towards his students. He took the empty seat beside Eren, because he knew they loved when a teacher actually wanted to know them, mingle with them, instead of just writing words on a board, ruling behind a hideous desk. He wouldn’t have it any other way either, so he turned slightly to the side to look at all of them.

“Your tests” his voiced boomed in the room, and the students started a low set of buzzing and whispering to each other.

“Let’s see…I was especially pleased with the spontaneous answers, the ones that truly represent you;” the teacher said.

“But mister, how do you know those answers _truly_ represent us?” asked a boy from the middle rows without raising his hand. The others were giggling and smirking with as much discretion as possible.

“What’s your name, boy?” Levi asked and rested his chin on his palm, with a calm but albeit curious look.

“Jean Kirstein, sir” The boy answered and rose to his feet.

“Did you sign your test, Kirstein?” The teacher raised an eyebrow at him, fully aware of the show Jean was going to put on.

“No sir, I did not” Jean said with an honest look.

“Then let’s find out if I can identify it anyway…” and he started to briefly read one paper after the other, until finally he found something and proceeded to read the test out loud.

“So…Jean, at the question _How would I like my homeroom teacher to be?_ You answer with… _Firstly, I would like that person to have character._ Did I get it right?” _Those brats really think I haven’t seen those kind of games before, when in reality I was playing them when they were still in diapers._ Levi thought.

“Well, yeah, you did” Jean said with embarrassment and looked down.

“Really? Well congratulations! Congratulations to me, I mean.” The class broke down into laughter at their colleague’s failed stunt.

“Then Kirstein, enlighten us, what do you perceive to be a person of character?” Levi asked him, but with a serious look on his face this time.

“Well…for example…a person of character is sympathetic towards our doings and…doesn’t tell on us to the headmaster for every little bad thing we do.” The boy babbled but with a slightly insolent tone.

“Aha, I see now, Kirstein, you used that phrase, _person of character_ , out of sheer terribilism, to impress everyone else. Now you know why I found it easy to find your test?” Levi said with a small pride in his voice, he even smirked a little.

“Ah, and you also gave me an idea” he continued and focused on the whole class “for my next class we will be discussing about a person’s character, agreed?” and most of them nodded eagerly with a smile on their faces. Jean sat down and Mr. Ackerman continued to browse their tests. He paused on something.

“Who is Armin Arlert?” he asked with a frown on his face. A blonde boy with glasses from the second row rose slowly, with a slight tremble.

“I am, sir.”

“For example, at the same question, he answered with: in no way like Mr. Zeke. Have you personally encountered that math teacher?” Levi fixed Armin with his gaze.

“Well, I haven’t, but he teaches my cousin’s class. He’s vicious.” Armin said.

“In your future, it’s best that, whenever you do an assessment, you do it based on your own opinions, not others” Levi reprimanded him.

“But why is that, Mr.?” Armin raised his eyebrows and moved from side to side. “Everyone knows about him and his ways”

“I don’t care what others know. I know that he’s a strict, but a fair teacher. And if some students speak ill of him, it is certainly because of his pretentions with the students.” Levi also knew that Zeke was the worst piece of shit in this high school, with his absurd ways of teaching, crude punishments and affinity towards the regime, but he couldn’t tell them that. He already broke too many boundaries so far.

“Did I make myself clear? Sit down, Arlert” And Armin sat with quite a defeated feeling inside.

“Mister Socrates! Pardon me for interrupting, but you promised to answer on our question too.” A small girl with long blonde hair and blue eyes raised her hand, and Levi puffed at the formal use of his nickname. “What kind of students you hope for?” She continued.

“What kind of students I hope for? Let’s think about it…do you know who Phidias was?” And Levi was glad to see a few hands raised up, but Jean waved his the hardest.

“Come on, answer then, Jean, you want to get revenge from earlier, don’t you?”

“He lived in the same time as Socrates. Fifth century BC. Ancient Greece. But he was a sculptor.”

“Well done, well done Kirstein” The teacher congratulated him.

“Do you know what Phidias used to say about how he made his statues so full of life?” Levi rose from his spot and went to his desk, hopping on the table and crossing his legs.

“The answer is simple. He said that all he had to do was to cast aside the useless marble. Think about it…” and Eren wrote that quote down.

” Now my dear students, today we are supposed to talk about Utilitarism, but I say we ditch that in favor to some good old Greek history lesson. How does that sound? Write down _The school of Athens_ ” and so began another hour of Mr. Ackerman’s awesome and nonconventional teaching.

Outside of the classroom however, Mikasa didn’t even had the power to sob. She knew class had already started and that she would be in trouble if the headmaster saw her, but she simply didn’t have the guts to join in. The idea of everyone seeing her so raw and vulnerable, with puffy eyes and a runny nose, sent shivers down her spine

. She wanted nothing more but to be held, sad and broken, by someone, to enjoy being a mess, to belong to someone just as fucked up as her, but each time she had tried that in the past, things turned out badly. So she resulted to kneeling by the door of her classroom, crying out her sorrows and frustrations and licking her wounds in total loneliness. _It all ends in tears anyway_ , she remembered the woman from the sea saying to her last summer.

Levi was strolling through the classroom, his hands behind his back, telling the students about Plato, when he noticed some movement by the door. He made his way towards it, and took a quick glance through the glass opening on the top. Surely though, he saw Eren’s desk mate near the door, shaking and hugging her knees to her chest. She looked like the definition of sorrow and suffering. He knew that her life must be confusing, that perhaps her issues were so naive compared to the real world’s problem, that this was probably just a girl overreacting because of a failed crush.

He knew, most of all, that teachers don’t mingle in student affairs, that they all should be properly detached and follow etiquette. Still, he couldn’t help it. He remembered vividly when he was a teenager and there was no one to talk to, no one to call and nobody to understand.

 _If those kids knew I was a sensitive guy, it would be the end of me_ he thought and crossed his arms. He leaned against the wall, by the door. He wanted the girl to listen.

“Kids, let’s take a break from those ages and return to modern times. I have to admit, from all the Marxist-leftist great thinkers out there, quotations needed, because they’re frankly as dumb as a rock, there is one that doesn’t completely suck. I’m sure you’ve all heard of Slavoj Zizek, since our regime promotes him like crazy even though they have no idea what he is talking about. “Some of the students nodded and Levi moved further.

”In one of his works, he talks about the necessity of love. I would recommend that book to anyone who is going through a breakup.

It is written there about the idea of Quantum physics. That before the Universe we all see today, there was, kind of a positively-charged Void. But then things happen when the balance of the world is disturbed.

I am quite fond of this idea very much: the fact that what we call creation is really just a cosmic imbalance, a cosmic catastrophe, and things exist only by mistake. “

No one was moving a muscle, and the audience loved the show he put on.

“And in the book, the only way to counteract it is to accept the mistake and go to the end. We have a name for this: it’s called love. And it’s an extremely violent act. Love does not mean _I love all of you_. Love means that I pick out something, a small detail, even if it’s a fragile, individual person, and I say, _I love you more than anything else._ In this quite formal sense, love…is evil”

And then the philosophy teacher rose from his spot and opened the door. He and the girl locked gazes with one another. Levi leaned then in the threshold, crossed his arms again and looked at the ground. He blinked slowly at her. From below, Mikasa couldn’t move a muscle. He resembled a retired, depressed, good-for-nothing superhero. 

“Yes, love is a catastrophe. It’s a crazy illness. Love ruins your life. But the author concludes that he is very sad when he is not in love.” The girl managed to smile a little somehow. He leaned a little towards Mikasa’s crouched form and whispered, speaking to her personally:

“Listen miss, I don’t know who broke your heart. But trust me; it’s not worth crying over someone who prefers the dull balance of this world instead of you. True love simply doesn’t perish at the slightest inconvenience.” Mr. Ackerman truly had his way with words. She didn’t have, however, the necessary strength to go up. Facing everyone…

Annie

Eren

It was just too much.

However, that did not mean Mr. Ackerman was not right. He was, once more, totally right about everything. He made her wonder, for the slightest second, if some had truly ever loved her in this life.

“Come on, let’s get you to class.” He offered her a hand and she gladly took it. She wiped the tears and joined the others. The teacher’s hand on her back slowly guided the girl to her place beside Eren.

All this time, what she really wanted was a helping hand. She had waited and waited for the dumbass next to her to extend it, and in the end she received it from the person she expected the least. Mikasa pulled out a notebook and a pen. Eren tapped her arm and mouthed a “what happened?” but she ignored it. He was too late.

Mr. Ackermann resumed his teachings and everyone acted like nothing happened.


	7. Levi: The Nausea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another Levi Pov! Another chapter! Angst, incoming.  
> Petra fans, sorry. :)  
> Prepare for a general feeling of spleen.  
> What do you expect? It's inspired by Sartre's Nausea.

.~the dull Present~

I was sitting on the bed, surrounded by different pages, some typed on my machine, some handwritten and some were a horrible combination of both. It was early evening and I was having a tremendous fight with the empty page in front of me. The papers were still blank, but there was a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and waiting to become visible.

The tea had not helped, the books were not an inspiration and felt dull as dishwater, the song that was playing on the pick-up told me nothing…

The words were blocked, I sexually identified with Sartre’s _Nausea,_ there were no answers to my questions, and all in all I was choked by the severe hand of not having anyone to understand me, to organize the mess in my head, to make the buzzing stop.

There were literally four people that managed to do that so far. Let’s see:

Two were dead because of the Titans,

One I was forbidden to even think about, because Erwin had decided a long time ago that my relationship with Rhea would somehow endanger the entire Regiment,

And the last one, well, the last one was like methadone to a heroin addict: the nicely-packaged, cute version of not being enough, approved by those around you none then less.

And I would take more and more each time, like a rabid animal, increasing the dosage, using and abusing, in hope it would give me the chills and the high like the real thing did.

In the end, however, the more I tried to forget my old life with her ginger hair, Chanel perfume and naïve way of fucking, the more I realized Petra was the complete opposite of what I was begging the Universe for.

Because that’s what all substitutes did. They made you crave the forbidden version more and more.

I am truly worse than my own demons, I thought as I grabbed the phone on the nightstand and dialed the familiar number of my highly-prized methadone. I held the receptor between my cheek and shoulder, while I was scanning over a page from my manuscript about bits of ideas which could be elaborated into something half-decent.

After a few rings, I heard the warm voice of my colleague and confidant.

“Hello, who is this?” Petra said.

“Hey, it’s me. How are you?” I asked, but my counterfeit concern did not mean I was less of a selfish bastard, so I did not let her answer and continued “Listen, do you have a spare minute to talk? There is this question that has been bothering me. Apparently it has no realistic or plausible answer, you know, the one that reffers to the imminent arrival of the apocalypse and what would you do and with whom in the time left...”

“Levi, I-“ Yes Petra, I knew your answer involved me in one way or the other, but hearing you say it would definitely guilt-trip me to hang myself in the bathroom.

“Shut up for a second, will you? As I was saying, think about the usual response to that question. All the answers I’ve heard so far are in utter unanimity completely different and not at all integrated or connected to the life we are currently living, which leads me to believe that...”

„Levi, I am currently stuck in the kitchen with three pots on the stove. Can’t your teenage tantrums wait a little?How about you ask how I really feel about you, for a change?

Who knows, maybe that will shoo your existential dread away for a while? Execept, oh, I know. You will pretend not to hear me because you just don’t like the answer. I have been grading essays all they and trust me, some of them were more interesting than your...”

But I slammed the holder down before Petra got the last word.

Because I could not bear to see how she wanted us to be mature and responssible. I despised confrontations.

Because I loved everything she was not and hated every grab for dignity she was pulling on me. I hated it all, in fact.

I hated how she was right.

I hated how, in those moments, she tasted like withdrawl.

I hated how I was failing to turn her into _something_ she was not. (alias Rhea).

I hated how she reminded me that I was a hollow, wrecked version of my old self.

And I hated that tomorrow, or next week, or maybe the next month, she would let me in her bed again. We would surely begin another round of cat-and mouse. And we would perform that play as old as time and accept that anything was better than the ever-persisting cold side of the bed. That it sure was far more fun to succomb to eachother than to the Titans.

So I went on searching for another subject to write, because, apparently, my dear methadone chose to drown me in misery. Just like I deserved for treating her like a disposable object.

Because after the deeds were done, and the battles fought, I still wanted to write my book . I still wanted to prove I was worth something.

~The following morning~

That day, I had mentally prepared myself for the atrocity I was going to commit. It was no easy task.

When I entered the classroom, they were waiting for me, surely expecting things, with a subtle smile on their faces .A faint excited buzz roamed the air: about what was Mr. Ackerman going to talk about today, about how he defied the System, about how he was not like the other brainwashed teachers that tortured them. 

So I dropped a figurative guillotine over their heads without mercy.

“Alright everyone, open your textbooks on the fifth page. “ I said to my pupils in a calm, neutral tone.

A deafening silence followed suit. I was sitting by the blackboard and scanned everyone. They were so perplexed, as if I just told them the Earth was flat. They knew for a fact that their dear Socrates despised the dumb curriculum, he never taught his students using the textbook, he spoke freely, and he did not feed the nightmare that was the titanical education. Me following the compulsory subjects was, for them, a hard-to-swallow oxymoron.

And now, out of the blue, I was doing just what the dear Party expected me to do. How dare I be like the others? How dare I?

“But we were supposed to talk about a person’s character today!” A bald and short kid rose to his feet, clearly resentful towards me.

“Sit down, Springer!” I said strictly to him. He had a hard time following my instructions.

Suddenly, I was no longer the cool Mr. Ackermann who talked about the meaning of life. I was a disappointment in their eyes. Just like the rest of the bland teachers.

They regarded me with utter pure hatred, and it surely worked in making me feel bad. But I had made a deal with Erwin a long time ago. And I was a man of my word, no less.

I had been a teacher for about 4 months when I received my first complaint. So naturally, I had been summoned to the principal’s office after the classes ended, like a bad kid who misbehaved. Of course, it was as humiliating as it was ridiculous. I was supposed to be an undercover agent of the Survey Corps, not entertain our commander’s charade.

I sat down on the opposite side of his desk, while Erwin Smith, the principal and the head of the Survey Corps, ruled over his office from his big luxurious leather chair.

“It has been brought to my knowledge certain parents are…appalled by your lessons and methods of teaching. A report has been filed against you.” He said to me in a reprimanding tone and handed me a file to read. I did not even glance at that piece of paper.

“I would not expect otherwise. Let me guess, are some big Titan mommy and daddy mad about the fact that their child does not want to be an engineer anymore?” I spat back at him with a displeased look on my face.

“As a matter of fact, yes they are, Levi. But you have to understand the whole ordeal is far more delicate than that. Some students belong to really influential families. You are not ruining your own reputation, you are also downgrading the entire high school.”

“Downgrading it in the eyes of whom? The Party? The government? We both know I am perfectly capable of doing my job both as the homeroom teacher and the philosophy one. “ I frowned and shifted in my seat, clearly annoyed with the current situation.

“ But unlike you, I do not enjoy sugarcoating the reality of our world and kissing the Titans in the ass. Did the Party manage to wash the last bit of your dignity?” I continued and leaned against the backrest of the chair.

“You are insolent! You think I like it? Sitting at those horrible meetings, eating at the same table with them, talking about politics…I hate it, Levi. I really do. But I do it for the Regiment. For the Scouts. So that they give funds and taxes to this school and we have at least a dim chance to fight them. I do this for you, for Hanji, for Mike. For humanity.”

“Wow…” I paused. “Consider me impressed, Erwin. You really are a whore for money.”

He gave me an exasperated sigh but calmed down none than less. He resumed his annoyingly straight and proper position and it drove me mad how easily he could dissimulate everything. Did that man ever have a breakdown from all the lies he was putting up with?

“Is it really that horrible for your self-proclaimed ‘great thinker’ status to do some proper teaching instead of endless ramblings about Camus and his gang?”

“Tsch, you wouldn’t get it, math teacher.”

“It is also forbidden by law to indulge in that kind of the relationship that you have with your students, you know?.” And I rose an indignant eyebrow at his words.

“I’m not having intercourse with them, Erwin.”

“Yes, you are doing far worse. You make them love you and you make them dream big. I won’t be surprised if one day I see your statue in the schoolyard. “ He said with a smirk.

I rolled my eyes so far in the back of my head I was afraid I would get stuck like this. I had to get out of there.

“How about a deal then. I teach three out of four classes my way, and during the fourth I swear to open the textbook, cross my heart”

“ Fifty fifty.” He bargained.

“Eat me. Take my offer or leave it. We are talking about knowledge, not potatoes at the market.”

“You are such a blackmailer, Socrates. You know I can’t do that. The kids would be devastated if you left” Erwin said with an out-of-place tone.

“It’s settled then. Consider it an eye for an eye for that stunt you pulled by banning me to enter _that place_ and see her.”

And for once, Erwin did, in fact, shut up. I could see in his eyes that he was looking for smart things to say, for clever answers. As if everything, life itself really, was nothing more than a logical problem to him, waiting to be solved by his great intellect.

“Levi, you have to understand, I had to..” He started, but I had no patience for him. I got up and walked to the door, preparing to leave his office. He was a great leader but….a terrible man, really.

“Keep your sorry excuses for yourself, Erwin. I don’t want to hear it” I said bitterly, but before I made my way out, he stopped me:

“How do your students look at you with utter admiration and listen to everything you say? You are not the most charming person to deal with you know…”

“It’s called being genuine. Maybe you’ll learn it one day.” I replied and got away from him.

And that, my dear readers, is how I found myself in the place of the executioner that day in my classroom. The books were opened and you could cut the tension with a knife. I counted so far four pair of frowns, three mouths turned downwards and six grunts. Man, this was going to be interesting.

“Mr. Jaeger, since you and Miss Ackerman are so eager to show your excitement for this class, you might as well start to read the introduction.” If I were not wearing the mask of a stoic, calm and bitter man, I would be laughing at the scene those kids were pulling. Eren was sitting backwards on his chair, facing the back of the class and his colleagues, instead of me. And of course, Mikasa followed suit, because she probably hated the system too and also loved the idea of her and Eren against the rest of the world. How cute, I was guilty of liking it. 

“No, sir” Came out his venomous answer. It was funny how easily kids turned their back on you.

“How about Arlert then? Start reading boy. The paragraph about understanding the basics of philosophy, please. ” I gestured towards the skinny blonde kid, who, for one reason or another, was too scared to take part in his friends’ shenanigans.

“Alright sir, here we go.” The blonde kid put some horrendous glasses on and started to read. His friends made such an ugly sound, they almost spit on him. Jeez, they were angry. And not at Armin particularly, and not even at me. They were mad at themselves. I felt their terrible displeasure directed at each of them. They were mad about the fact that they dared. They dared to trust me, to believe I could have been their ally in this seemingly losing fight. They confided in me, and I stepped on their ill-suited opinions like when you did on a cockroach.

And don’t get me wrong, I was on their side. I understood their anger at me.

In fact, I knew it better than anyone. Every morning when I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw what they were seeing then: a short bastard with a Napoleon complex, whom life put in his designated yoke. A grumpy man who believed he was making a difference by staying and enduring, when in reality, he was the biggest coward of them all.

Lay down children, I wanted to scream at them, because at the game of Who Hates Mr. Ackermann the Most, I have won a long time ago.

“ A brief introduction in philosophy, by Doctor Darius Zackley, PhD. To fully understand philosophy we must first be familiar with its siblings, that are logic, psychology and sociology. All of these notions have been covered prior in the first volume and should already be familiar to a diligent junior student. With that in mind, the titanist philosophy completes the general knowledge of any dutiful worker of the state. “

As if…I thought. The general knowledge of the average citizen was how not to starve until tomorrow. And the concepts I was supposed to teach were so bland and boring, even the bread I bought at the general store next to me was tastier. And that was saying something…I couldn’t help but puff at those pompous words. I was not the only one though, everyone expressed their disproval at Armin’s words.

“Over time, philosophers have come up with different concepts about the meaning of existence and the human nature. To understand the value of those concepts, we have to ask ourselves two questions each time we read a new paragraph.

First, how much the concept is both elaborately and clearly explained to the reader, and second, what is the importance of said concept in the context of our society. Question one rates the concept’s perfection, while question two rates its objective, and once those have been answered, determining the philosopher’s greatness becomes a relatively simple matter. If the perfection is scored on the horizontal line of a graph, while the objective is scored on the vertical one, then the area determined is similar to the concept’s value.

For example, Heidegger’s Sein und Zeit might score high on the vertical, but low on the horizontal. Marx’s Das Kapital on the other hand would score high both horizontally and vertically, yielding a massive total area, there by revealing that work to be truly great. Practice those measurements as you cover the material presented further.” Armin finished and took off his round-shaped glasses. I had my back turned towards my students, because during Arlert’s reading, I couldn’t help the urge to roll my eyes about a dozen times and didn’t want the others to see it.

That certainly did not mean however I was not aware of that girl with a ponytail trying to eat in my class. So messy…

So this was the stuff I was supposed to teach the kids. That was definitely not an introduction in philosophy, that was a big pile of…

“pretentious bullshit.” I exhaled and turned around from the board to face the others.

Boy, I wished I had a camera to capture the look on their faces. I put my hands in my pockets and strolled through the rows and benches. They were so confused and flabbergasted about what was happening, they didn’t know what to think: was I the bad guy or the hero on their side?

I wish I knew, at least…

“That’s what I think Dr. Zackley’s introduction is. We are not laying pipe, we are talking about philosophy here.” And even Eren and Mikasa halted their stunt to look at me. I saw everybody with wide eyes and open mouths, and one of the students crossed out a graphic he made on his notebook.

“I mean, how can you describe philosophy like Paradis’ Radio weekly Top 40? I like Heidegger, he gives me the chills, but I can’t dance to it. “ I mimicked in a high and ironic tone the average citizen Darius Zackley must have imagined for his textbook. The whole class started to chuckled and Armin smiled warmly at his colleagues. Even that girl in the back of the class had stopped eating.

“This writing is degrading to anything remotely interesting on philosophy. It’s a disgrace, can’t you see?. Plato must be rolling right now in his grave. “

“Tell you what, kids, rip out that page. Come on, rip it out.” But they all looked at me like I have gone mad. Not even Eren was moving. I knew they had been taught the silly ideology that the State’s propriety was almost holy. But doing the same things all over again and expecting different results, that was even sillier.

“Come on, it’s not the bible, you are not going to hell for this. Rip it out! I thought my students enjoy disobeying the rules, and guess what” I turned then to that boy, Jean Kirstein “ I won’t even tell on you to the principal”

I had not even finish the sentence, when a ripping sound seized the whole room. And to my surprise and frankly everyone else’s , it was not Eren or Mikasa who did it first. Instead, a tall girl with brown hair and freckles, the most quiet in her class really, held the remains of the paper in her hands.

“What’s your name girl?” I asked with curiosity.

“Ymir, sir.” She responded. And the others followed her suit, they ripped out that horrible introduction with joy and delight. They almost wanted to embrace me for not betraying them, I could see it in their eyes. I had allowed them yet another hour of freedom.

“Keep ripping, children. This is your battle, your war. If you are not careful, the casualties could be your own hearts and souls” I encouraged them as more and more students were damaging textbooks.

“Now in my class, you will learn to think for yourselves again. You will learn to savor words and language. No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world.” As I was walking through them though, the sounds of destruction echoing all around me, I spotted something interesting.

“What is that you are writing, Mr. Reiner Braun?” I went closer to the tall, bulky blonde and looked over his shoulder. “Ah, I see, you are doing math exercises. Wanna be an engineer?”

“Yes sir” He muttered in embarrassment, as everyone else paused what they were doing and fixed their eyes on him.

“Were you paying attention to what we were doing?” I asked and waited but Mr. Braun decided to let his silence speak for itself.

“I see that look in Mr. Braun’s eyes, like Hegel and Marx’s ideas have nothing to do with going to business or engineering school. Right? Maybe.”

I then looked at his desk mate, who seemed to share Reiner’s distaste for my class “Mr. Hoover, you might agree with him, thinking ‘Yes, we should simply study Zackley’s logic and sociology and go on quietly about the business of achieving other ambitions.’ Well, everyone, I have a great secret to tell you “ I paused.

“Come closer, huddle up!” I urged them and in less than ten seconds, every student was gathered up, some of the kneeling in front of me, some of them leaning their necks, and some were breathing on the back of my neck, witch bothered me endlessly, but I knew better than to ruin the moment.

“We don’t read and write music, poetry, novels, philosophy, because we have nothing else to do. We do so because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, law, business, engineering, these are all noble pursuits, and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote a great poet ‘What good amide these of me, of life? ‘ The answer is: that you are here. That life exists, and identity follows. That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.” I looked at everyone, fixing their gaze, one at a time, and I had that rush once more. Like the clocks had stopped working for a second.“What will your verse be?” And just like that, the bell rang its loud annoying ring and the magic vanished into thin air.“ Students, how about you apply what you have learned today ?To prove the beauty of art, everyone has to write a short poem about love for the next class. How does that sound?” “Sir, but maybe not everyone is in the mood for lovey-dovey cheesy romance! Well, except for Historia, that is” Connie said and the boys around him laughed while Historia clenched her fists and swore murder to him.“Mr. Springer, your superficiality never ceases to amaze me. Think outside of the box! Write about your love for summer, how you love your mother or how you love to be a pain in the ass for me.” I said with a hint of joke and irony in my voice, and I hoped he got it.“With all due respect sir,” Interrupted the daughter of the Titan-police officer. “This is not literature class, we have homework for that too…” “You have a point, miss Leonhard. Who is your literature teacher?”  
“Ms. Petra Ral, sir” Ah, what a delightful coincidence… “Perfect. I will talk then to Ms. Ral and if you do good with your poem, you will get a high mark both in Philosophy and Literature class. Does that satisfy all of you?” The others cheered in delight, especially Jean, who thought he could shoot two birds with one stone. “Alright then, that concludes today’s lesson. You are free to go” I left my place at the back of the class, and went towards the teacher’s desk. 

“Oh, Mr. Socrates, We thought we had lost you to the Titans.” Eren exclaimed. I allowed myself a moment of sympathy, put a hand on his head and pat it once or twice.

“Brats” I sighed , “you think so lowly on me, really” and then I went to grab my suitcase and the reports from the desk. I left the classroom in a fast pace, heading to the teacher’s office.

And that was how today’s episode of ‘What to steal from banned Western culture’ unfolded.

Yes, yes, I knew I replicated that scene from Dead Poets Society to a T, but please don’t judge me so quickly, we all had our guilty pleasures around there. Hanji had cross-dressing, Erwin had a grandeur complex, and well..

I wanted to feel validated by the ones who would shape the future. I craved their approval, because of some weird desire to feel young again. Because I wanted to steal their gusto for life, because I wanted my fight with the regime to be violent, like theirs were, not subtle, like mine.

Even in my late twenties, I still hoped to be different. I still refused to give up and fill a number on a record.

I still wanted feverously to belong.

And so, I had become worse than a bad writer or a copycat painter.

I became nothing more than a fraud.

A demagogue. A rabble-rouser.

I entered that distressing room that was the teacher’s office, not even wanting to take a peak around me. I put the reports into their designated place and went on to prepare myself some tea. I put some water to boil and grabbed a mug. The available flavors were mediocre at best, but so was everything really…

You took what you get, really, and not only in this high school, but this whole country was suffering from a terrible disease: obedience. I hated it. I hated it almost as much as I hated the curricula I was supposed to teach.

I hated the fake pleasantries I had to exchange with some of my colleagues.

I hated the infinite list of shortages: no instruments, no money for school trips, no funds to send children on exchange programs.

I hated the rigor and the blindness of the people around me. What could I possibly share with those ignorants about shaping the minds of the future generations? In the small time I spent in that purgatory, I kept witnessing only small talks, gossips about affairs, weird sex tips and all kinds of diets that made me want to vomit.

I had watched from afar, for the past four years I had been a teacher, a peculiar string of suspicious trends unfold in front of me: the Korean diet, washing your hair with eggs and vinegar instead of shampoo, the horrifying grapefruit technique which was the reason humans deserved a new plague, and lately, a weird hack to trick your metabolism using algae.

It was truly fascinating sometimes, like I was an explorer of a virgin land and found a new species of ape with every day I spent on that god-forsaken place. I guessed that was what you got when the majority of the teachers were appointed by the Party, using all kinds of relations or intercessions. The corruption was blooming even faster than that mold in the upper corner of the room.

Of course, they were not all that bad. Hanji was a good company, and one I could make fun of the cattle that were the others. Of course, she had a bad habit of laughing way too loud, but I pretended that she was laughing in my behalf too.

I added a spoon of sugar in my tea and gently stirred it counter-clockwise. Hanji was sitting at the main table with Petra, talking about some of the students. The ginger woman was glancing at me from time to time, giving me an uneasy and worried look. Poor girl. I grabbed my mug from the lid and sat down next to them.

“How are you doing girls?” I asked in a monotonous tone and took a sip from my tea.

“Oh we were just talking about…” Petra started, but was rudely interrupted by the banging of the door.

Of course, things here had a habit to annoy me, I could never afford peace for long . Just when I was thinking to enjoy the short break I had, in stormed the most annoying, terrible, good-for-nothing, Titan ass-licking-and-enjoying-it person from the whole school.

“Mr. Ackermann, I have told you before on countless occasions, you confuse philosophy with the aspects of real life.” He said loudly, to grab my attention, in that loud, yodel-like voice of his. No hellos, no formalities, no politeness whatsoever.

The other math teacher. Aka Zeke Jaeger. And my nightmares seemed to come alive each time he opened his filthy mouth.

He stopped by my side but did not sit down, he merely slammed the reports on the table. In a terrible routine, he took off his glasses to wipe his forehead from sweat, and took a sip from a water bottle he always carried around.

Bleah, really. I get why the students hated him so much. He was asking for it, let’s face it, with his dumb face, endless punishments, useless formulas he taught, and overall horrible attitude, you could genuinely harbor no other feeling for Mr. Zeke other than utter _spleen._

I thought there was nothing wrong with being exigent or harsh, but when the average on his classes was around 4,5 out of ten, rigor was out of the question. He was, to put it plainly, very strict at being incompetent.

And there was nothing I could do but bite my tongue and swallow like a slut, since he was appointed at this school by the order of some high-positioned Titans.

“We can’t afford leisure with those children. I was walking down the halls and all the students were talking about how _cool_ Socrates is.”

I rolled my eyes as hard as I could, until only the whites of my eyes were visible, while Petra bit her tongue to hold back her laugh. I was the only one who had the guts to defy Zeke, and the whole Scouts cherished me for it.

I turned slightly towards the girls and rested my forehead against my hand, so I could hide my face of distaste from him. I have always been such a bad actor, I still asked myself how I had not blown the cover of the regiment so far.

“What is with this new trend of befriending the students?! Do you seriously place your popularity above their education?” He almost yelled, his index pointing upwards, scolding me like a cliché parent. I sighed deeply and looked down, waiting for him to finish his rant. Hanji was already covering her lips with her hand. I mouthed her a desperate ‘Save me’, but to no avail.

“We have to bring the hammer down! Otherwise they will be reckless and …” and that was the moment where I shut down my ears and stopped listening. Rhea told me once I don’t deserve the punishment of hearing what every blabbermouth had to say. It was important to preserve my energy for things that were worth it.

“I don’t know what you have studied about pedagogics, Miss Ral, but here, the students must have an innate respect for the rules and the system.” I could almost hear his grand gestures while he poured his frustrations on poor Petra.

‘Don’t worry Zeke’ I thought. ‘We all know your big booming voice and attitude are clearly compensating for something…little.’

“Well, I have a different mentality. I believe that if the students respect their teachers, they will behave too.” The ginger said with a small smirk at pulled a strand of hair behind her ear. My gaze softened on her.

For the next few minutes, I wore a look on my face which definitely asked “Is this asshole done yet?”, until the asshole, was, in fact, done. He grabbed a big, sturdy math book and went to his class, throwing looks of detestation to innocent bystanders. Everyone sighed, relieved, and life went on its mundane way.

By the time I had arrived home, it was already late afternoon. I entered the block of flats and got into the old and nasty elevator. It was a small, crammed space, with a broken, dirty mirror and no matter how many times the cleaning lady scrubbed everything, there was always someone that left behind a pungent smell of urine and vodka. Ugh…

I tried to touch as little as possible and pressed a black leather gloved finger to the button of the 7th floor. My whole existence reeked of misery and I sighed for the 37th time that day.

The entire thing moved with a deep, guttural screech, and it reminded me of an ancient beast waking up from its slumber. Even the elevator acted like it was a luxury instead of a necessity. I sighed again, annoyed. 38 times so far. Was the Universe tempting me to break a record? If so, it was working…

On the way up, the old cables holding everything in place were rubbing unnaturally against the engine and the pulleys. One day, this excuse of a mechanism was going to crash and someone would surely plunge to their death.

Hopefully me.

The dull white walls greeted me with the same sturdy, impersonal and sterile energy. I hanged my coat and put my gloves and scarf in place with precise, calculated movements

When I was in my late teens, I never imagined I would become so obsessed with cleaning. I had spent a great portion of my life living in and being an utter mess.

I leaned against the counter and took in the whole spotless scenery. I must have been the literal dream of every unmarried young lady, and being a neat freak certainly had its advantages. I list them bellow as follows:

  1. I didn’t lose things anymore
  2. It made not think about her all the time.



Because, believe me, I wanted so bad to leave dirty dishes in the sink and not wipe the dust every three days, but it would remind me too much of our cozy home by the sea.

I wanted so bad to leave the alcohol bottles out and the ashtray full, but it would remind me too much of our rampant parties.

I wanted to bad to leave my clothes on the floor, but it would remind me too much of those wonderful times we fooled around.

I was not even genuinely concerned about the whole hygiene and order thing. It was just another distraction, another shield, like my grey suits were, like my boring car was, that kept Rhea’s memory from eating me alive. I wanted to think that by associating with everything she was not ( the boring, the predictable, the order) I would kick her out of my heart little by little.

Hm. As if…

I approached the fridge, I took out some rakija I had and put some water to boil. A tea would calm me down for sure, especially if I brew it according to my secret recipe: that was, tea-flavored alcohol instead of alcohol-flavored tea. Hopefully, you caught the subtle difference.

I grabbed a mug from the cupboard and while I left the tea leaves in the boiling water, I stole two, three, okay maybe four gulps of alcohol, and I enjoyed the way it burned my throat. And I would have stolen more, if it were not for that annoying ring of the telephone.

I set the bottle down with a grunt and went to answer that damned thing. Hopefully, it was either Petra apologizing or Erwin complaining, I was not in the mood for anything else.

“Hello, it’s Levi. Who’s this?” And guess what greeted me. That’s right.

Silence. Pure utter silence. I waited and waited and there was nothing but the void.

“Who’s there?” Nothing.

“Erwin? What’s with this attitude?” still nothing.

“Are you kids pulling a stupid prank? ‘Cause if that’s the case, I warn you…” Nothing. If it truly were those stupid kids I taught at the school, they wouldn’t be able to hold back laughter or at least a snicker. So I ran out of options, and I did not want to believe, I did not want to be hopeful but…

“Sweetheart? Is that you?” And my voice was _so weak_ and on the verge of cracking.

But there it was. One word and at the other end, someone released a very, very subtle and feminine gasp. My eyes widened. My world shattered and my legs turned to jelly.

And then nothing. The other person hanged up and I was left with the dull beeping of an ended call.

I could not believe it. I did not want to even think about what happened. Still…

I rushed to my desk as quickly as my legs could carry me. I plopped down on the chair and my fingers ran across the keys of my typewriter so fast, the words that came out on the paper had missing letters. There was the spark I had desired all along.

~ _there, a long time ago~_

_“Rhea” I whispered into the pitch black room. The silence weighted a ton. “Do you remember our first sunrise together?” and the stunning creature I was holding in my arms shifted slightly. I registered a high-pitched yawn followed by a deep exhale._

_“Yes baby, what of it?” she answered and brought her body closer to mine. We were tired, we were sweaty, we were intoxicated and we were lying down on the small bed in silence, but with no chance of truly resting anyway. Sleeping at night was definitely out of the question there, and all the music, the yelling and the celebrations that never ceased until the early hours of the morning were to blame._

_So we settled for a warm embrace instead: She was lying flat on her stomach, while my head was resting against the small of her back, with my arms wrapped around her middle._

_“Did you fall for me that night?” I wondered._

_“What? No…Levi, this is not a 19 th century cheesy romance.” She laughed and I felt the vibrations travelling all the way across to my cheek._

_“I am pondering the idea of writing a chapter from your perspective…for my novel, you know?” And I pressed a soft kiss, right where her floral shirt rose to leave her skin bare._

_“And you decided on an interview right before I fell asleep, you ass. You’re a handful, sweetie.”_

_“Yet you love me anyway.” I said while her breaths, deeper and deeper, offered me an astounding amount of tranquility._

_“Silly boy” She muttered and turned around, wrapping her arms around my neck, draping a leg over my middle, resting her face against the top of my head and shoving my face in her sickly floral-scented chest. Caging me effectively, like every woman knew how to cage any man in her talons._

_“Of course I love you anyway. Always have, always will, baby. You ask me about falling in love like I am some dumb schoolgirl, when in reality, I feel like I have always loved you. Before I even knew what love was. Before I was born, even. If you were not to exist, I would have still looked for you in every man and woman on Earth and felt that every second of my life lacked something“ and people wondered why I adored her with every fiber of my being…_

_“You talk about falling.” She went on._

_“ Levi, there was no falling. I have continuously been in love with you since the beginning of time.” I was drowning in her embrace and her words. If I were to die right then and there, I would not have minded._

_“The truth is,” she continued, “every time I look into your eyes, watch you dance to my songs or complete your sentences, I know. I know that..._

_We were made, out of ashes, for each other...”_

_“Wow” was all I managed to say. Well, life would have been too damn easy if my girlfriend was only good at singing. She also had to be beautiful, intricate, smart, perceptive, creative, mysterious, good with words, irresponsible; she was so much more than the pretty voice that always sang like a siren, so much more than I asked for. Yet people kept on disregarding it, like a commoner would refuse to accept the existence of a fourth dimension._

_“How was that? Did you like it? Good enough for your book?” But I had no strength left to answer that brat as her heartbeats lulled me to a gentle, well deserved sleep._

~the dull Present~

“And then, suddenly, in that empty, real bedroom, with its big boring table covered in a red tablecloth, with its washed-out furniture, with its pristine sheets, I was frozen in a fear I had not felt not even in my deepest nightmares.

And I was terrified neither of death…

Nor of eternal suffering,

Nor of the imminent apocalypse.

I was terrified of the harsh realization.

That I simply would not get all of this mess.

That my life was not long enough and my mind not sharp enough to understand the meaning of my perpetual struggling.

That all the clues had been laid out in front of me and I still was not able to read them.

That I, too, would waste away and rot for nothing, buried 6 feet under, along with my utter stupidity and blindness.

While the abundant, intricate, overwhelming riddle that was life itself would go on, would flow its course,

Clear as a river,

Natural like a first breath,

Simple just as love,

And would spill into nothingness, virgin and unsolved.” I typed at the machine.

Oh Rhea, I wish so badly I could see your eyes right now and thank you for simply existing.


	8. Armin: Catcher in the Rye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww, sweet dystopic high school shenaningans.  
> This chapter was originally very big, but I split it into multiple parts, so after the next Levi chapter, I will update the Eren chapter much quicker than usual.  
> Enjoy readers!  
> Is everyone smoking in this fanfic? Probably...

_Jean_

When the students did not indulge in the teachings of Levi Ackerman, they went back to a childish obedience. The shabby and cold classroom hosted, hours after hours, days after days, their malnourished and anemic bodies, detached from their souls, like the tail of a lizard. It was merely a survival tactic.

So that the reptile that was their imagination could escape and take the shape of vulgar thoughts, innocent manifestos and rebellious scenarios, while the lifeless tail was to be butchered with useless information.

A middle-aged man lectured them about the late bourgeois French society and how it was the perfect example of decadence with their parties, fashion and shameless exploitation of its low-class citizens.

So unlike their Titanical regime, built on the back of unscrupulous individuals that wanted equality.

That was not real history anyway; it was an altered, bland version, so devoid of anything interesting, the only way to learn it was to memorize it by heart.

Eren scoffed, without taking his eyes off of the book he was reading under the desk. The titans had established their utopian egalitaristic illusion by effectively eating the freedom of the masses: they took down the press, altered historical facts, and rationalized hot water and electricity.

So nowadays, as the Party fulfilled its promises, they made sure the people of Paradis were living equally. And by equally, they meant equally living in the same poverty. And it was hard to contest their authority when the sounds of revolution were constantly overshadowed by that of a rumbling stomach.

Mikasa mimicked a great amount of interest, while her thoughts focused on completing her imaginary poem. She had started working on it even before Eren’s return, but somehow the last lines ceased to appear in her head.

_If you really were to perish_

_From my cry and from my laughter_

_I would…._

It was futile. The impersonal figure at the teacher’s desk did not let her focus. Who gave a literal fuck to the long processions of years and complicated names?

Not her.

Not Eren, who was reading Catcher in the Rye below his desk

Not Armin, who was sketching his usual grotesque man-eating monsters, meant to symbolize their leaders.

Not even Historia, see the irony here? Who passed around notes.

And certainly not even Jean, who had a lingering look in his eyes. He kept his gaze glued to the black-haired beauty that was sitting in front of him, diagonally to his spot. She was chewing on a pencil, her deep, rounded eyes focusing on nothing.

Everything was just so perfect about Mikasa: her dark eyes, her sardonic posture, how she always reeked of expensive cigarettes, no matter how many times she applied perfume. That girl was the pure embodiment of a praying mantis and a black widow.

No, what the hell, that sounded way too trashy in his head.

Let’s rephrase then, he thought, it was like his favorite marble statue came one night to life and roamed the Earth free. The issue was, the only soul that had been available at that time, was that of a cirrhotic Gulag survivor.

But that didn’t mean Mikasa was heartless. Not at all. Sure, she gave to everyone the impression of a cold-blooded killer, and everything she did was in a way aggressive, harsh, or apathetic, but Jean didn’t mind. He knew that she had her own subtle ways of showing passion.

For example, there was that time when they were talking about allowances in the bathroom. She told him that instead of spending money on poetry books at the book store, she preferred to write her own, and that’s how she saved enough to buy her Marlboros. Jean had been captured ever since in her net of nonconformity. He thought she was so badass and original.

The next time he had tried instigating a conversation about literature, she humiliated him with her sheer knowledge about some books he had merely heard of.

There was also that time, which still made Jean blush, during English class, a year ago. She was working like a maniac to write the best review to Catcher in the Rye, when all of a sudden, something fell from her uniform.

It was a lighter, most likely a counterfeit Zippo, and the sound of it hitting the floor reverberated through the poorly-lit classroom.

He reached for it before he had time to think.

He rushed like his life depended on it, like his sole movement could bring down the terror of the titans. And of course, Eren beat him to it. He had no chance to grab it in the first place, seeing as that other son of a bitch was her desk mate and by default closer to her, but Jean was still upset about it.

And their seat placement meant he could watch their interactions while literally boiling out of jealousy. That day, he became very aware of his masochistic tendencies.

“Mika, you dropped this, please be more careful” Eren whispered to her, but in a more languorous, purring tone, unlike his usual one, which was straight up yelling. He handed her lighter back, their fingers brushing, and Jean felt a rage so powerful you could ‘ve probably warm all the nine circles of hell with it.

He was going to strangle Eren, that was certain, he was going to end his existence right then and there, and there was nothing but vengeance on his mind until…

Mikasa did something that plagued to this day his deepest darkest fantasies. His eyes drifted downwards, and a blush rose uncontrollably to his face. She crossed her legs, and he saw something astonishing. There was no other word for it. Under the modest, black jumper dress that was her uniform, lay a hidden treasure. The skirt rose up, and Jean saw that instead of the compulsory pantyhose, Mikasa was wearing hold-ups. That’s right, folks, _sheer black hold-ups_.

Her dark thigh high stockings drove him to insanity, and when she lifted the intricate elastic band to hide her lighter there, he lost it. In that purely intimate moment, he figured out Mikasa held a frivolous nature, hidden away from everyone in plain sight.

She too, under her mask, was fighting against the rules, against fitting with the rest, against the Regime.

She was so much more than a cold, subservient plain Jane. She was a rebel and a flirt, if only you knew where to look.

And this discovery could only provoke a certain reaction on Jean: all his blood went downwards and that was, in short, the story of how he got the biggest possible hard-on in English class. He thanked the universe that he was sitting down.

“You could ask Mr. Ackermann to switch places with Eren, who knows, maybe then she would actually look your way.” Connie’s quiet voice pulled him out of his memory. He frowned and dug his elbow into his friend’s ribs. The other boy winced.

“Shut up, you bald clown” He muttered, but he knew the other was right. “She just needs to get over her Eren phase. Then you’ll see.”

“Mhmm…Jean, listen, I say this because I give a damn to your existence, but do you really need to see her walk down the aisle for another boy to convince yourself? She is not into you…” Connie tried to shake some sense into him.

“As if…If that were to happen, I would break off the wedding, steal the bride and run away with her on a white horse, like in those American movies!”

Connie tried so hard to hold back his heartfelt laugh, but a few giggles escaped him.

“Please, you would sit in a corner, get drunk and bribe the band to play Etta James for like, an hour or something.”

“Would not!”

“Would too” Connie whistled and hummed a familiar tune “ The church bells raaaang..”

“Stop it Connie! The teacher will hear us!”

“And all I could dooo”

“I said stop it you imbecile”

“Was Cryyyyyyyy!”

“Besides” he added “you know…you don’t need to settle for a spot as a side character in her story. You could have the leading role in someone else’s” And Jean knew Connie was not talking about the school play.

_Armin_.

Armin was exhausted. It was afternoon by the time he had returned to the boarding school.

As the sound and light technician, he didn’t have to step on the stage, but the work was tremendous nonetheless. For the play to be successful, he had to look for the music, work on the poster, change the lights, and so on.

Today had drained him of his powers like a vampire. He stayed behind in that cold, damp theater after everyone went home, to clean up and work on the promotional poster for the school play.

Rome wasn’t built in a day, he knew that, but he was also aware that all his ideas were mediocre, no matter how many times he redrew and reconsidered them. They were overused and lacked the originality of the artist. He tried to bring something innovative to the paper, but his thoughts simply were stuck in his head and thus they didn’t match the content he was creating. A good illustrator would do all his attempts in five minutes, whereas Armin had worked for days on all the templates. He also had to take photos of the whole cast and fix the costumes each time those idiots damaged them. Every time he solved an issue, twenty more appeared.

He didn’t want to remember the all-nighters he did while searching through the sparse collection of records from the school library. Did they have any idea how hard it was to add battling sounds to Beethoven’s Eroica?

Moody actors, with their airs and frills, they think they are in Hollywood, he thought. In reality, if he one day decide to just walk away and give up, like Mikasa did, the whole play would be compromised, he was not replaceable.

“Losing you is not an option, Armin” Eren told him one day, and since then he had started to believe it

Somehow it was all worth it when , at the end of every representation, they grabbed him from behind the curtains to share the ovations. The applause was for him, the admiration too. And when the crew gasped at his photographs, marveled at his illustrations as if they were painted by Van Gogh himself, he forgave all their insolences.

After all, even when the work felt Sisyphean to his weak shoulders, it was better to be good at something, rather than wasting away on a desk job.

So he took it like a man, went on with his business and started all over with each play.

He greeted some of his colleagues that were hanging on the corridors. He shook hands with some, while a perpetual flow of sentences surrounded him as he walked.

“Oh there is the great artist, when are you going to paint me?”

“It’s either illustrating for the Party, or starving. I pity you”

“Hey van Gogh, what’s cooking this time?” Of course they would nickname him after the only painter they had heard of. He groaned and went on his business. He was really the Magritte-type of guy.

It was futile to reconcile with them. Those boys were like a collective manifestation of Cerberus.

He opened the door to his shared room. He put the folder with the illustrations on his desk and closed his eyes in frustrations. His roomies were home too. He had hoped for a miracle, but it looked like the much needed rest had to wait.

Their room was fairly small and the furniture, at the mercy of mites. Three iron beds sat in different corners, separated by some desuete wooden wardrobe, bookshelf or cabinets. The floor was always covered in a strange slime which caused their feet to stick on it, no matter how many times they had scrubbed top to bottom. The walls used to be white, but now they held a creamy yellow color thanks to their constant indoor smoking.

The whole design was guaranteed to give you a mild depression, so the boys tried to redecorate a little. A personal touch was in every place, so to speak.

First, they had purchased sort of a Persian rug so they could hide the horrendous bottom, a second-hand TV, smaller than a suitcase, and record player.

Second, the boys adorned the walls with all kinds of cheap posters until the original paint could no longer be seen.

Armin, for example, had a big map of the world, and each place he dreamed of exploring was marked in red pin. He also put up with some tape, printed, cheap pictures of famous painting: Van Gogh’s, Klimt’s, Monet’s, and Rembrandt’s.

Jean’s posters split into two categories: either he had pictures of Cuba, Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, and sunsets. Or he had posters of half-naked or topless ladies. There was no in between.

Connie had taped on his side of walls various pictures of Al Pacino , Robert Deniro and song lyrics written in black sharpie. But he beat Jean by far on the kitsch contest: he had glued a black-and-white Polaroid photo of his girlfriend, so that he could stare at it every night. That wasn’t exactly terrible, but the caption scribbled nearby was the icing on the cake:

_Baby baby don’t forget_

_Connie’s as good as you’re gonna get._

Armin didn’t know if this was sexist, dumb or just utterly humiliating on his part.

The two boys were both sitting crossed legged on Jean’s bed. Connie was hugging a big radio to his chest, the music was not loud enough to disturb the neighbors. A slow cubanese salsa was playing in the background. Jean was very focused on some paragraph from a magazine.

“Come on, horse face, what does it say?” Connie urged him on.

“Be patient, idiot, my French is rusty.” Armin watched them both with a frown and hanged his pale blue windbreaker.

“Here it is!” Jean continued and translated the text. “The nether lips, also known as labia minora, become red and puffy when the woman is either aroused or orgasming. Other sings of the female orgasm include quivering legs, eyes in the back on the head or a wide mouth open in a silent scream. Hahaha! Connie, this is a goldmine!” Jean said enthusiastically.

“Are you reading illegal porn magazines? Again?” Armin questioned them with a disgusted look on their faces. Living in a boarding school was certainly not easy.

“ Jealous much? Wanna join us, coconut?” Jean teased the blonde boy invitingly and patted the spot near him on the bed.

“No way, he hasn’t contributed to the fee!” Connie disagreed with his roommate.

“Ah, come on, Connie, have mercy on him. I heard that painters are known to be terrible lovers…”

“Ew, you guys are pigs” Armin smiled at them. Living with those buffoons had its perks. For instance, there was always someone to listen to his ideas about freeing the people through arts and crafts.

Other times, it was his turn to suffer through Jean and Connie’s immature boyish behavior. It was then Armin truly felt trapped in those walls. There was no way to run, there was nowhere to hide, each turn he did, and they were always in his line of sight.

Despite the lack of privacy, His colleagues were great friends and the best comrades. Sure, they were sometimes mean, but they all had each other’s back. Well, Jean and Connie more so, but it didn’t matter. One for all and all for one, that was the saying.

Armin wanted, in each moment of his existence, to prove to himself and to the others he deserved a place on a pedestal.

A pedestal that glorified his intellect, his rational thinking and his imagination. He desired to be better than those plebeians, to be able to look up at them.

But he was still a teenager and ‘boys will be boys’.

“Scoot over, Jean.” He smirked and Connie whistled, while Jean patted his back and left his arm around his shoulders. They all huddled up in the small, narrow bed.

Their caramederie was touching. Armin wished he was able to take a picture: three dumb teens, wearing washed-out clothes, in a bed that was never made, drooling over Playboy. What a composition, truly worth of a Pulitzer.

They were deep into the wonders of female anatomy, when suddenly there was a very loud knock.

On the window.

The same window that was up on the third floor. Jean got up and went to investigate and behold, who could it be but that promiscuous psycho.

On the outside, Eren was tapping on the glass impatiently. He had climbed up on the large tree that extended its branches by their window and upwards.

It was not the first time he was using the non-conventional way to sneak inside their dorm, but the sight of Eren holding on to the three trunk in the middle of the chilly autumn meant two things.

Firstly, he was out of cash to bribe the guardian.

Secondly, if he were broke and still wanted to visit them, he would have to be truly desperate.

And Jean was not in the mood for any of his wailings.

On the other side of the window, Eren used his theatrical skills to conjure the most pitiful face he was capable of. He was certain no one could resist his big green eyes, pouty lips or upturned eyebrows. He gawked at Jean like a prodigal son, begging for mercy.

But all he received in return was a flip off from his classmate. He told Eren to fuck off and go home, even if he knew he couldn’t hear him through the glass.

So Eren frowned and groaned, abandoning his attempt at mercy, then unbuttoned his blue denim jacket and held it open. That was when Jean saw the vodka bottle he had in the inner pocket.

Well, he thought, if he were shit faced drunk, he wouldn’t be able to hear Eren’s ramblings about how he was the way superior artist and the chosen one to destroy the Titans.

So he opened the window and helped the brunette climb inside.

“That’s more like it, Jaeger.” Jean said and snatched the alcohol from him. Eren smirked.

“Please, jean-boo, you just can’t resist my begging” And the bastard winked at him. Jean couldn’t get how the others loved Eren’s promiscuity and unintentional sensuality so much.

He was lucky that his charms and his acting skills, along with some great lectures, had chiseled his image. Without them, his nature screamed ‘violent prostitute’. Jean found it revolting.

“watcha’ reading, comrades?” The actor then strolled to Armin and Connie and snatched the magazine from Connie’s hands. His eyes scanned the page for a few second and he burst out giggling.

“Really? The female orgasm? What are you, thirteen?”

“How can you read French so well?” Jean asked with a disturbed wonder. Was there anything Eren was not good at?

“Please, while you were still reading fantasy books I was studying Moliere’s works. I am fluent in French, but I use it to actually study the minds of the great thinkers.

The things you read about,…I prefer to practice them in the real life, with a real girl, even heard of that?” He replied with that persistent tone of making everyone feel inferior .

“why you…” The taller boy frowned. He was not going to be belittled by that poser. With a single stroll, Jean had closed the distance between them and grabbed him by his t-shirt.

Eren was few words away from receiving a nice punch in that stupid pretty face. Armin even got up and placed himself between them, trying to calm the spirits.

“Eren, stop bragging. If a person is truly educated, they don’t have to affirm it every five minutes.” Armin scolded him while pulling at his sleeve to signal he had crossed some lines.

“Dearest friend, with all respect, shut up.” Eren replied and shoved Armin out of the way. He reciprocated Jean’s moves and grabbed him too by the collar.

“I think our horse face right here needs to be reminded where he belongs…” And he gritted his teeth like a rabid animal.

“Au contraire, you dumb fuck, you’re the one who needs to be put in his place.” The tall boy faced him with some French.

“ Stop acting like you’re better than everyone, when you’re nothing more than an egocentric brat who thinks the world revolves around him. Yeah, you’re good at acting. Big deal. Armin is a genius at painting and he doesn’t consider himself superior to us.” Jean finished.

“He does, trust me, he just doesn’t voice it like I do.” Eren spoke, defending his best friend.

“I will punch you in the face.”

“I will punch you first!” Their voice escalated in a fast pace.

“Faggot!” Jean screamed.

“I’m not a faggot!”

“Eren, you literally smear black eye pencil across your lids.”

“It’s part of my artistic post-industrial rebel image, call me when you understand those words!”

“It’s actually called being a pretentious little bitch!” They were both yelling now.

“Coward!”

“Poser!”

The atmosphere was very tense. They were ready to fight, their eyes flashed danger, their mouth a thin line. It sure would turn messy, like a dog fight.

Armin held his breath, but just as Connie went to call the guardian, it happened.

Their serious expressions cracked little by little, until they couldn’t hold it back any longer.

Those bastards burst out laughing. And not the ironic giggle type, no. They broke out, the sounds of long, uncontrollable joy filling the air, until the boys were out of breath.

They were bending over and clutching their bellies, eyes watery. Armin and Connie sighed in unison.

“They are worse than preschoolers.” Said the bald kid.

“Agreed.”

„Bhaha, you should have seen your face!” Jean said and wiped a tear in the corner of his eye.

“It’s called acting for a reason…” Eren replied and went to embrace his friend. They hugged tightly and patted each other’s backs. He liked to feel Jean’s arms around him.

“You give me a headache, you know?”

“Yet you still love me, dear friend.” Eren replied and pressed a smooch to his cheek.

“Ew, disgusting, Eren, get off me. “ he let him go, still giggling, and turned to Armin.

“How about we drink then! Armin, fetch us two glasses!” And the blonde kid rushed to grab two shot glasses from the cabinet and gave them to Eren. The boy filled them with alcohol, gave one to Jean and he took the other.

“Jean, Bruderschaft!” He ordered and so they crossed their arms together.

“Aye-aye captain! To our health and my patience for you!” Jean said and downed his share, in the same time with his partner in crime. They both scrunched their faces and released a deep ‘ahh’, then poured vodka again . This time however, they handed the glasses to Connie and Armin.

“Eren, you’re a weird type of treasure.” Connie said and downed his bottoms up, while Armin was looking at the drink with a weird face. He was such a wine guy.

“Don’t be shy, I got this for all of us.” His best friend encouraged him, and the blonde kid figured out that dealing with Eren was a deed that could not be done sober anyway.

So he resigned himself, drank the whole thing and finished up with a nice round of coughing. Eren pat his back and led Armin to his bed.

Jean leaned against the only table in the room and cracked the window open. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it and took a long drag while Connie plopped down on his own bed, arms behind his back, staring at the ceiling.

“Alright Eren, what’s the real reason you have come here?” Armin said and sat down on the mattress, back against the wall, his feet dangling over the edge. Eren joined him and cuddled up, bringing his knees to his chest and nuzzling his head into his best friend’s side.

“It’s Mikasa. She is so mad at me and I don’t know what to do . She doesn’t talk, she gave up her role in the play, and she ignores me all day long. I can’t stand her giving me the cold shoulder anymore. I need your advice.” Armin ran his fingers through Eren’s hair in a comforting way.

“Well, did she say anything to you?” He tried to give an objective advice and analyze the whole fiasco rationally.

“She said she was tired of me.” Eren muttered, he remembered what she told him when he had tried to sneak into her bead. It happened the following night after her stunt in philosophy class. Each of Mikasa’s words dug into his back like a knife:

“She said that I’m guilty for her suffering.” He groaned into Armin’s paint-stained shirt. The other boy whistled.

“Wow, you screw up big time, boy. She kinda has a point.” Eren changed his position so that now he was flat on the bed, with his forearm covering his eyes.

“How can you say that Armin!?” he retorted.

The bedroom felt like a cage Eren couldn’t escape from. Every word Mikasa had said to him bit him back terribly again and again. He had been the biggest asshole in this world.

The boy felt the Top three worst people in history were The Colossal Dictator, Hitler and him.

He couldn’t picture Mikasa weak, unable to welcome him in her arms, tired, sick of him talking. He hated how he hurt her.

So our rebel forgot all about songs, the Revolution, Hegel, the sea. All he could think about was her, her and her tears alone. The teen was held against the wall by his mistakes, like a guilty terrorist, and a great horror swallowed him: this time he couldn’t fix the mess.

“Aww, look at the poor baby. That’s so sad. Connie, play Paloma Negra.” Jean said in an ironic tone and the other boy changed the cassettes, the sad Mexican song filling the room.

“Shut up, horseface, no one asked your opinion.” And Eren went on his journey to drown in self-pity, listening to the deep voice of Chavela Vargas:

_Pero mis ojos,_

_Se mueren sin mirar_

_Tus ojos._

_(But my eyes,_

_Would certainly die_

_Without seeing yours)_

A loud set of whistles and animalistic sounds ruined the melancholic mood. Outside, the boys on the hallways were howling and catcalling. Footsteps were approaching the room, until finally, someone sneaked inside and slammed the door shut, panting.

“Your colleagues are awful human beings.” A girl wearing a long brown skirt and a hoodie complained.

“It’s your fault for being so beautiful!” Connie put down the player and rushed to the door. He hugged his girlfriend tight and pressed a kiss to her cheek. She laughed in response.

“Sasha, you’re a sight for sore eyes…but what brings you here? Is it because you can’t stay away from me?” And everyone inside but them did some gagging sounds and sniggers.

“How did you know, baby?” Sasha asked, mimicking surprise.

“Oh…It’s the eyes chicho…” He cupped her face and fixed her amber eyes in a great suspense. You could tell he had waited for a week to say that.

“Yeah, yeah, they never lie.” Jean broke his momentum.

“We know Connie! We have seen the movie too! We were in the same room actually!” He yelled from across the room and Connie pressed his fingers to his forehead with distaste. That bastard ruined everything.

“Oh, my poor baby…” Sasha comforted him and caressed his cheek. “But the actual reason I came here is this.” And she took out a VHS tape from under her hoodie. The girl waved her prize proudly in front of the others.

“It’s Breakfast Club. And I mean _the Breakfast club_. Full version, no cuts. I thought we could watch it together, seeing as I’m so generous and you are the only ones in this dorm who own a video player.”

“Oh my goodness! Sasha, where did you get this?” Connie grabbed it from her hands and stared at it in wonder.

“A girl has her secrets…” She said with malice, hands on her hips.

“Come on guys, help me set the whole thing up!” Connie urged them, and all the boys, except Eren, jumped into action, taking out the small TV and player from their hiding spots.

If only the building manager knew why the electrical bill was so high…

_Historia_

On the other side of the boarding school, a slender figure was going to kill someone. The whole room had been turned upside down, but her precious movie could not be found. There was only one logical explanation for this: her roommate stole it like a dirty thief.

And since no one was going to help her without something gross in return, she decided to deal with it on her own.

So the pretty heroine put on a pastel pink silk dressing gown, some slippers and off she went to find the usurper of her happiness.

There was only one room in the whole building that had a video player, after all.

On the corridors of the boarding school, death became her, so to speak. Angry footsteps echoed on the halls as she faced the inferno that was the boy’s side of the dorms.

Plenty were roaming the halls, skinny and desperate specimens, and her pale complexion and delicate nature stood out amongst them like a sore thumb: a girl, all alone, who had the unlucky fate of being too beautiful.

But just like the Hindu goddess Khali, the manifestation of feminine wrath, she was so pissed off, no amount of whistles and catcalling would stop her. With her fist clenched and the face of a satanic rabbit, she marched through the crowds of horny teenagers that couldn’t wait to objectify her.

“Boys, get up and look, here comes the Princess!”

“Joke’s on you, my little friend here has gotten up ever since I smelled her scent on the hall.” She tried to ignore all the comments.

“Won’t you come in and say hi to my little Johnny? I promise he doesn’t bite! But he might spit on you!”

“You’re a sight to sore eyes, darling!”

She wanted someone to sew her ears shut.  
“ Oh your Highness,, won’t you sit on my face?”

“Why?” she turned around and glared at one of those scums.

“Is your nose bigger than your dick?” She spat at him and went on her way to find her roommate.

“Wow boys, looks like the bitch can also bite!” She heard someone yell in the distance, accompanied by whistles and slur words.

One of those days, Historia swore to herself, she was going to rule the country and implement a death penalty for barbaric behavior. She imagined herself as the true Queen of Paradis, in a red robe and white dress, perched up on a mighty throne, while her aggressors were to be guillotined in front of her. 

One of those days, they were gonna get it, she just had to be patient.

But she had other problems on her hands at the moment.

Inside, the boys finished with the complicated cables. They all agreed to watch the movie on Armin’s bed, and for now Jean was starting up the whole machine. Their fun time however, was cut short, when the door to their room was slammed against the wall for the second time that day. Those girls and their PMS…Jean thought

On the threshold, a small girl was wearing the look of a mad hyena. Dressed only in a thin nightgown and a robe, the blondie scanned the scenery like a predator, until her blue eyes settled on the target.

“Sasha, there you are, you filthy thief! Did you seriously have the nerve to steal my precious teen drama? After all I’ve done for you…” Her scorned voice turned everyone in the room as white as a sheet.

“Historia, I swear, I have only borrowed it for a little…” The brown-hair defendant tried to calm the waters, but it was futile.

“Borrow it, huh? Like when you borrowed my nude lipstick or my Swiss chocolate? That kind of borrowing? Oh, you’re doomed Miss, and tomorrow first thing in the morning I will report this whole…Oh.” The young lady paused, her whole anger dissipating into thin air.

“Is that vodka?” She spoke in her sweet tone again and smiled tenderly. They all sighed in relief and Connie shrieked in delight.

Historia squeezed herself through the others and went to grab the alcohol. As she sucked it raw from the bottle, she reminded Armin of a baby finding solace in the warm milk.

After she downed a few healthy gulps, Historia asked Jean for a cigarette. So he gave her one and lit it himself, accompanied by a ‘whatever the Princess wishes for’. The blondie laughed ironically and crossed her eyes at him for a second. She inhaled the toxic substance, enjoying how it burned her lungs, the smoke enticing and gratifying.

Then, that diaphanous half-child half-woman creature jumped on Armin’s bed, scaring a melancholic Eren that was resting his chin in his palm and staring at the abyss.

“Historia, get off! You’re going to get the sheets dirty with ashes!” Armin objected.

“Shut up Van Gogh. What’s with the long face, handsome?” she asked the brown-haired rebel as she tilted her pretty head. The boy just huffed.

“He has trouble with Mikasa, poor guy is being terrorized by his sister! She simply won’t forgive him because of some major bullshit” Connie interjected, and Eren’s jade eyes moved for the slightest second. He wanted to deny those affirmations so badly, that clown knew nothing of the true situation and still spoke like he did.

“Is that so…” She smirked, ready to tease.

“Eren, please stop with the sulking face. You are ruining the whole atmosphere with your dramatic feelings.

I promise to think about it and come up with a solution. We’re best friends and we support each other, don’t we?.” Armin said with a small smile, patting Eren’s shoulder, then got up to bring the alcohol to his bed. He took a swig straight from the bottle and handed it to Eren.

“Eren, don’t listen to that virgin! If you want some real advice, you gotta ask a pro!” Connie said with pride, pointing to himself. He marched towards the boys and joined them on the bed. Then he looped his arm around Eren and pulled him closer, as if he were revealing state secrets to him. Sasha was right behind him.

Armin was afraid his bed was going to collapse under their weight.

“I don’t know why you want to fix things so badly, since you live under the same roof and siblings fight all the time. BUT! I’m going to be benevolent this time and share some of the wisdom of a long-term relationship. “ And he winked at his girlfriend. Everyone made a desperate face.

“Listen carefully, muchacho, cause I will tell you this only once.” Eren rolled his eyes but smiled nonetheless, and even leaned in to hear him better, fueling his friend’s Latino fantasy.

“right.” And he took a deep breath.

“When you see her coming at you, angry, _como una hydra_ , shut up.”

“Just keep your mouth fucking shut”

“And not defend myself?” Eren asked perplexed and crossed his arms.

“No. Because you don’t even know why she’s angry. You hush. You get it?

The less you know what she is talking about, the sorrier you are.

You say only ‘ _yes_ ’ and ‘ I’m so sorry darling’,

It’s textbook, amigo.”

“Well certainly, if you are henpecked” Eren spoke with typical masculine indignation.

“No, if you are a survivor.” Connie replied with a studied artistry. Sasha was carefully planning out his punishment.

“You wait for the storm to pass, when you work out which way the wind is blowing, and when she has calmed down, then, and only then, you make your move” he finished in style.

“Wow, thanks buddy, that couldn’t have been more irrelevant to my situation” Eren said.

“Well, at least I tried…”

“Don’t listen to that Casanova, Eren.” Jean strolled across the room and joined the group on the blonde boy’s bed .

His legs were spread, his elbows were resting on his knees and his face sat against his right hand. He rested at the edge of the bed, behind the brunette boy.

Armin was praying to the wood Gods.

“Casanova was Italian, you dumbass.” Connie told him displeased. “I’m trying to reenact my Spanish spirit here.”

“Connie, you were literally born in Ragako” The taller boy replied, depressed and uninterested with everything.

His cigarrette was burning out between his fingers, the smoke rising up lazily, in a hypnotic manner.

“ Trust me Eren. No woman in this world is worth anything.” And Eren shifted so now he too, was sitting on the edge of the bed. He took the cigarette out of Jean’s hand and took a long drag. The girls tried to hold back their laugh.

“Who knows …” He added pathetically as they both stared with long gazes at the wall in front of them.

Then Sasha sneaked up from behind, silent like a cat, buried her fingers in each of their skulls and bumped their idiotic heads against each other.

After that stunt, she too grabbed the cigarette from Eren and also took a long drag. The boys groaned and rubbed their sore spots.

“Quit it, you mewls. You talk like you’re some rednecks in your forties.” She threatened and returned to her spot in Connie’s arms.

When the spirits calmed down, Historia shifted , slow and steady, to face Eren. She placed her feet in his lap, smoking with grace. Just like a true queen would.

“You know, maybe I could help you with your situation…”

“ Then you have my undisclosed attention, Princess.” He replied with genuine interest and a smirk.

“I have a plan, I could stir up the spirits, but you have to do most of the work.” She spoke.

“I’m listening…” Eren eyes almost shone in the dim lighted room. It was well past sunset, the night settling in.

Historia leaned in and began a flow of long whispers in his ear. As she was exposing her plan, he was becoming more and more delighted. When she was done, he exclaimed.

“Girl, that is absolutely brilliant! I have been telling to the other boys that there’s more to you than just looks, but they refuse to believe me.” Eren rejoiced.

“Thanks, I guess.” She replied embarrassed and fixed some flyway hairs behind her ear.

“But how do you know she will be mad about it?” He pondered in doubt.

Historia raised a cheeky eyebrow.

“My dear, trust me, when you’re pretty, whatever you do there is no feeling a girl can harbor for you other than raw jealousy. Happened so many times I can certify for this to work.”

Eren slumped his shoulders. “ That must’ve hurt.”

“Eh, at first, a little. But it’s all I’ve been getting, really. Girls can’t stand you because you always steal the spotlight , guys hate you because they can’t have you. And if they do, they toss you away afterwards, when you show them you’re not as perfect as they have perceived you to be.

You know the old saying: for every gorgeous woman you see, someone, somewhere, is tired of her.

And they all dress up their distaste for me in the pretty clothes of admiration. “ She sighed in frustration.

“Must be a lonely existence…”

“It is.”

Eren then removed her feet from his lap and regained his more playful attitude, shedding his angst the way snakes shed their old skin.

“Well, that’s cute and all, but I know deals with the devil require a price to pay in return. So…what’s your, pretty? I must warn you though, my soul is already rotting away for someone else.”

“I don’t need that, idiot. But you’re right. There is something I want in return….” Historia demanded.

“Anything for you.”

“ The next time you go _there_ , you take me and Ymir too.” Eren wasn’t exactly surprised at her request. But he could not allow it.

“Certainly not. Ymir betrayed us when she joined the Titan Youth Committee. She is a traitor! I’m not letting her defile the only Eden left in this world.” He said, his tone rising in anger. But Historia was having none of it.

“Then consider the contract void.” She said matter-of-factly and puffed in indignation.

“You make such a big deal out of it. She tore down your walls and left you out in the open, raw and vulnerable. Now you just have to put the bricks back all over your exposed self.”

“It’s not that simple Eren…”

“Wake up girl, that’s what all of us, the less privileged, have been doing. Life is merely a long string of repairing your barricades over and over after people break your trust you again and again.

Trojan-horse style, believe me.

This existence is merely a long string of disappointments. They never stop.

And we never learn our lesson, so get used to the suffering and learn to move on.” Eren gritted through his teeth.

“That’s pure facile tragism. We have a survival instinct deep embedded inside our brains. We get burned once, twice, maybe third times then we learn our lesson. No animal will prolong its own misery.” Historia replied, trying to dull her own ache.

“We do. Because we enjoy the freedom of being out of our own cage.”

“Then how about when I can’t fix myself any longer? Now I’m young and relatively eye-pleasing, I have the means, I have the favors of others. But what happens when I’ll be old? When the doors won’t open to me as easily as they do now? Where do I find the strength when I’ll be all alone and wrinkled?”

“You won’t. Because you’ll die in your forties from a drug overdose like any respectable way-too-gorgeous woman.”

She smiled a sad smirk at his pretentious, but albeit core-hitting preaching.

“Then at least take me along. I want to see the ocean and listen to forbidden music.” She resigned herself, and Eren couldn’t resist her tender, anguished tone.

“We have a deal then.” And he extended a friendly hand towards her.

“Consider it sealed.” And the girl shook his hand, a mutual agreement between two demons.

“Hey there, Faust, Mefisto are you done?” Jean asked them impertinently.

“The movie is about to start, gather up, everyone!” Connie announced victoriously as the opening credits began to roll on the small screen.

So, in a flash, they all sat on Armin’s bed, which, somehow, to his delight, supported their weight like a champ. Sasha and Connie were cuddling on the far left, Armin and Historia sat in the center, and on the far right, and Jean and Eren lay down flat on the bed, with an ashtray on Jean’s belly.

The colors were faded, the sound was sometimes out of sync with the video, and they could barely read the subtitles. It still felt sublime to them. While the teens in the movie were doing nonsense, the teens in the room pictured themselves in their shoes.

They imagined a world without Titans, like the one in the film, where they could watch whatever they want, read whatever they want, go to bed with a full belly,

Enter those big supermarkets instead of their almost empty grocery stores.

Enjoy hot water all day, not only at 6 pm for one hour.

Express their style instead of wearing those awful uniforms.

And so on…

“ Guys, won’t we get in trouble if somebody catches us?” Jean added all of a sudden.

“Don’t worry,” Eren replied “The beating’s worth it.”

And as they dwelled into the movie, in the small, cold dorm, their fragile, brittle souls fixed themselves all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still looking for a beta if you are interested. Kudo, review, like, whatever  
> I do everything for you, my lovelies.  
> Most of the pictures can be found on Giorgi Journal facebook page.


	9. Levi: On the Heights of Despair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Hope ur doing well. I had to split this chapter in two, because it was 11k words and I know that if i posted it as a whole, you would've skipped the endless philosophical monologues and I wouldn't want that. Jokes on you. All in all, Im still looking for a beta, if ur interested, dm me and I'll take you under my wing. I especially need one because English is not my first language.
> 
> Did I also mention how therapeutically writing is? I feel like I found the purpose of mankind: it's creation! Translating those beautiful, effemeral things around you out of this flesh world, into a dimension of ideas!  
> Leave a kudos or a comment, even if its a negative one! I love any kinds of attention! Also I love suggestions! If you're shy, send ur opinion/hate speech/ suggestion for improvement through a private message or something.
> 
> Anyway, l love all of you
> 
> The picture was found on the instagram page called curselovers. Take a look if you will, theyre genious!

__

_Levi_

I like to call this following adventure a story of three realizations or how Rhea marched right into my soul one day.

A bit too long for your liking, isn’t it? I’ll think of something else then …

There are times when I wonder why I bother with this manuscript. Why am I wasting the time I have left describing something long gone?

Perhaps Hanji is right…Whose soul can my words make vibrate? Is it worth becoming vulnerable in front of an unknown audience?

Will my ideas travel across the world and make an impression, or am I throwing what is left warm inside me, in the form of many pages, over the edge of a black hole?

Are you listening to my deep cries of anguish, or am I praying to deaf gods?

You have known nothing but my armor of apathy, stoicism and brashness.

But now, when you realized I have dimension, that I have layers and I am so capable of love, that I’m not confided between black and white, you perceive me as the prey.

‘Cause when the hedgehog retracts his spines, there is only one way for the fox’s teeth to go.

I’m willingly open myself up to you, and all the blood and the flesh arouses your famished gazes.

You are so pleased to see my weak spots, to see me grieving, defeated, hurt. You will feast on me, there is no doubt.

I can already hear the hungry clinking of the cutlery.

PS: If you didn’t get it, I’m not talking about the Titans for once. That’s a metaphor for you, my dear readers.

You are, sometimes, the worst type of monsters.

Yet I still crave you to give a meaning to my being. Weird, isn’t it?

So let’s, without further ado, jump into the story. I was just done with my first year in college…

_~the otherworldly past ~_

The same feeling of not belonging, of futility followed me whenever I went: I pretended interest in what mattered nothing to me, I bestirred myself mechanically or out of charity, without ever being caught up, without ever being somewhere. What attracted me was elsewhere, and I knew exactly where that elsewhere was.

After I took my final exam , which was a nightmare no less, I walked out from the University building so fast as if the very core of the pavement was burning the soles of my feet. I despised my lecturers, those posh Titan supporters I had nothing to share with. It seemed as, the only reason I pursued a philosophy major was because of the library section dedicated to existentialism.

Outside it was raining cats and dogs, but it was a warm type, the kind of rain that people in movies dance, kiss, and live in. I was soaked in a matter of minutes, and boy did I felt alive. Everyone on the street grunted as some punk Napoleon bumped into their ordinary existence. I passed thousands of nobodies without muttering a single apology and looked up at the sky as if I were seeing it for the first time.

Black leather boots and trench coat, accompanied by patched army pants spoke to those people louder than I could ever scream.

It’s strange how reviving those memories makes me change things I was so sure about. For example, I thought for a long time my college years were a tragedy, but as I recall the little man dressed in black leather trench coat, army pants and boots, accompanied by a thin line of pencil across my eyes, I now realize,

It was the ultimate cringe compilation.

I pushed back wet hair strands and got into the first public telephone booth available.

I put a few coins, pushed familiar buttons, and held the handset to my ear. I leaned against the greasy interior of those glass walls, and after a few rings, the deep voice of a woman answered in a slubberish tone.

“I swear I-Hic! Did not do it! Hic! “I sighed, exasperated by the situation.

“Ms. Rose, did you get drunk on rakija in the middle of the day, _again_?” My voice said with worry.

“You got me boy…who’s this?” she continued, her raspy tone almost making my ears bleed.

“It’s me, Levi. Listen, is my usual room available? I arrive tonight and have the cash ready.”

“You, youngsters, are going to kill me. You’re the first guest this season, I have to go turn up the heat in that wretched guest house and sweep a little. You know where the spare key is; make yourself at home when you get _here_. If by the time you arrive your room is dusty and cold, it means I have died in a car accident and mark my words, you are paying for my funeral!” The old lady added with a cough.

“Ms. Rose…you are a blessing.” I chuckled and hanged up the phone.

I had returned. Of course I had. How could I deny myself the pleasure of _here?_

But first, let’s clarify some things about this whole **Zone, there, here, this place, that place,** whatever.

Around 18 years ago, a meteorite crashed into the virgin lands of the southeast beach region of Paradis.

Was it a visit of inhabitants of the cosmic abyss?

One way or another, our small country had seen the birth of a miracle -

The Zone.

The Titans immediately sent troops there. They hadn’t come back.

Then they surrounded the Zone with walls, barbered wires and police officers.

Perhaps, that was the right thing to do, because the meteorite held something more dangerous than any of their feeble minds could imagine: an alien egg.

From which, two months later, an otherworldly being emerged,

_My girlfriend._

…

LOL. Did you seriously believe that?

This ain’t sci-fi, kids.

Now, for the real story, here is the summarized version: after establishing their regime of political terror, the Titans thought ‘hmm…what is the ‘must’ of every dictatorship? Oh, that’s right, preventing the citizens from escaping.’ They made sure emigrating was illegal, that the borders were packed with ruthless mercenaries aka the Military Police and if they found out about your cute departure, it meant a bullet in the head for your mother, wife, kids, uncles and so on.

Still, they were way too many fugitives for their liking. But didn’t the lovely Party have the perfect solution, as per usual? The morons decided to build walls, I repeat, WALLS, around the island, to further prevent the sweet taste of freedom.

As I was saying, many years ago, before I was born, so like, in the Cretaceous or something, they began wasting bricks and cement, raising walls. They were not even that big, at around 4 meters high. The Titans wanted to trap us in the perfect cage, and they would’ve done if not for their own stupidity.

Back when I was a cute chubby baby, a horrible scandal aroused. The plans for the construction had to be abruptly revised, because apparently, the current funds did not cover completely surrounding the island. But how could that be? A great team of economist and engineers devised the perfect budget years prior, the best the country had, they said…

If only the party members didn’t dip their corrupted fingers in…Apparently, organizing cruises, lavish parties and buying real estates with cash from the public budget has consequences. Who would’ve though?

Anyway, long story short, every titan felt deeply humiliated for about three hours, then had to make do with what was left. They finished the construction, but a small piece of land, located by the southeast beach portion, had to be left behind.

And so, an oasis of about 10 km was born. A place where western ships stopped by occasionally, blessing us with foreign music, liquor and books. A long string of music clubs adorned the filthy shores, enveloping our cores with unknown tunes and fancy alcohol names. It was _here_ people discovered Bowie, Zeppelin, Beatles, read the Rolling Stone magazine and Orwell’s 1984. Perhaps, to the outside world it looked like the average hippie beach resort, but to those whom life only mistreated, it was an unimaginable cure.

The Eden itself, which cleared out the filth of our caged world with every drunk swim in the ocean.

We’d been warned not to name it, so it was even harder for the Titan spies to find out about the mess. A simple neutral “ there” or “here” with enough shimmer in your eyes was enough to make anyone around understand what you were talking about.

Everyone wanted to go visit the place that escaped the Titans. And the more forbidden it was, the more popular it became. Soon, it became the favorite vacation spot of the rebels, the outcasts and the misfits. That’s how the Garrisons came to be: an “elite” group of revolutionaries that, during the popular summer season, ensured the illegal passing of citizens back and forth over the wall. And by that I mean they drove several trucks to pick up the tourists and shoot the Titan spies that jumped over the walls. We’ve been blessed with such responsible guides ….(no).

The first time I visited this place, it seemed as if someone took off my sepia-colored lenses. And the colors were blinding. My best friend and follower accompanied me and together we danced, drank and enjoyed cherry-flavored cigarettes for three long months.

I had become so addicted to it that, by the second time, I did not wait for them any longer.

And that’s why I endured a two hour long sweaty train ride, then hitch hiking, followed by jumping over a wall and then another ride in the back of a truck.

“Hello Farlan” I called him from a public telephone just as I got off from the train.

“Hello? You completely disappear from the face of the Earth and all you say is hello? You can shove that right up your ass!”

“Calm down, princess, I ain’t dead yet.”

“You’ll be by the time we meet. Where the fuck are you?”

“Halfway _there_ , you know, the usual.”

“As expected from a traitorous little bitch to leave his friends behind.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You hate me, I love you. See you in a week when you finish your exams or whatever.”

“I didn’t say I was coming.”

“But you will. Bring Izzie. Au revoir!”

“Hey, wait Levi!” But the receptor already returned to its place. I threw my angry bad boy frown to the whole world in general and in particular to the fat man behind me who had been constantly nagging me to finish quicker.

‘I ain’t about finishing quick, mister’ and I bit my lower lip hard enough to not actually say it.

I could tell you, of course, all about my journey, about the train ride fiasco and the magic of it, or the Garrison ritual: basically, you had to offer them two roses and the equivalent of around 100 euros to let you in.

But I’m sure there will be writers far more skilled who can do a better job at that. I won’t rob them the pleasure of describing, through their studied gaze, the road to paradise.

When I had reached my accommodation, the sun was already setting down. Rose was nowhere to be found, so I invited myself in, threw the backpack on the bed and took a well-deserved shower.

At dawn, I considered a long walk with a good book would do me good. And if I ever took a smart decision in my life, it had to be this one.

A deep dark night settled by the time I could bask into my solitude: up on a small hill, a fire was burning. Left abandoned, the flames offered me a warm spot to rest. I sat down on a damp wood trunk, deformed over time by the butts of the many people who sat there: lovers, drunks, loonies. And now, a misanthropist opened a soiled copy of _On the Heights of Despair._

Approximately 10 meters in front of me sat a peculiar building. It was an unprofessional structure of a two-story house. I noticed the shape of more than 6 rooms, yet to be fully separated by bricks. The pillars supporting the first floor were very crooked, walls were mended with various wood planks in the cement and the rooftop was plainly the other way around.

The people who had built it must have been so, so shit-faced drunk.

Do you know that Buster Keaton film where he builds a house from scratch with his wife? And because someone changes the original instructions, it ends up looking like an LSD nightmare? Yeah, I was looking at that type of thing.

I asked myself, right before I went back to my book, who could’ve been the cursed designer of this? What kind of torment the architect must have felt when, after selling his soul, he received in return an immovable monstrosity?

It was not my business anyway, I thought and returned to my book. Taking out a pencil out of my inner pocket, I underlined the ideas that spoke to me the most. It was an old habit of mine.

“We are so lonely in life that we must ask ourselves if the loneliness of dying is not a symbol of our human existence.”

Someone whistled nosily out of nowhere and interrupted me quite rudely.

“My, my who upset you?” But I didn’t answer and went on with my reading. I wanted to be left alone. The intruder was a well-known character, well past his prime, which, by the way, plopped down next to me with quite the nonchalance. The makeshift wooden seat creaked under our weight.

“Are you lost, young man? Where are your friends?” He asked, but he received my silence instead. He stretched his legs to warm his old joints and stared at the torrid flames.

Former leader of the Garrisons, actual annoying human wreck, the one who had dared to interrupt me with his nonsense was none other than the charming Dot Pyxis.

His wrinkles, old-fashioned moustache and clean shaved head gave the impression of an army officer or, nonetheless, a person of sustenance. The man was wearing one of those creamy cheap suits you often spot on small town mayors. Certainly an odd outfit, especially here, by the sea. Perhaps he still wanted to command other’s respect.

And just like the village priest sees himself as an oligarch, this man by my side pretended to be a glorious hero. Nothing but an unpleasant delusion on his part…

Because no matter how hard he was trying, he couldn’t hide his yellowish orbs, permanent redness in his cheeks or protruding lower abdomen. This was not the face of a redeemable person. By my side sat someone life had branded with the hottest iron possible: the humiliation of cirrhosis.

And while half the people in Paradis were suffering from years of alcohol abuse, not many chose to leave the hospitals and the medicine behind, so as to waste their final years in _this place._

“You look very heartbroken. Just thought misery loves company.” He revealed and shifted his weight. His nimble fingers went inside his jacket and fished out a small bottle with a transparent liquid inside. Major Hint: it was not water.

“ I, however, certainly did not request yours.” I muttered and raised my eyes from my notebook. Watching as he gulped down a few sips, followed by a pleased grunt, I put the book back in my inner pocket, since philosophy was out of question for now.

His lack of mercy to his own liver was quite the inspiration. How great must be the hatred towards your own self, for you to slowly commit suicide in the most degrading way possible? I was fascinated by the way he was perpetually lying to himself.

“My, my. Someone’s certainly pissed. Did the lack of original ideas get your panties in a twist?” And he laughed, deeply and sincerely, looking at the starry sky.

“When you say it like that…” I raised an eyebrow and rested my forearm on my bent knee.

“Oh, it’s always the same with you younglings. It’s either inspiration, or search for a meaning, or trying to make some sense out of this mess. Do you think some silly waves will give you sudden knowledge? Listen to me boy, life has not been kind to me, but the debts to be paid have taught me one thing: the way is backwards, march-arriere style.”

“What does that mean, old man? Booze first, dinner after?” Geez, he was getting on my nerves. I was not in the mood to deal with the antics of some drunk.

I was not in the mood for anything in fact. Except a cigarette, to replace the bitter feeling of failure with the acrid taste of smoke. I lit one of those toxic sticks and exhaled a long trail of smoke.

“ Haha. Such an unpredictable joke” he said sarcastically. “It means that if you are looking for the afore mentioned things, stop looking on the outside. The answers lay on the inside, within yourself. Your journey must lead to your innermost layers.”

“I bet your liver is telling you the same.” I grunted and stared at the blinding flames.

“Give me a break, will you? Everyone in Paradis has a mild alcohol addiction.”

“Yours, however, is anything but mild. You reek of rakija, old man”

“And you’re the pot reeking of tobacco calling the kettle back. 

The state of my country and the fight I was carrying to protect _this_ place is not something I could’ve endured sober. I have never controlled myself was because I was certain the Titans would get me before my own vices did. We all have our coping mechanisms. Mine are only more biological.” He took another healthy gulp from his bottle, it was already a quarter-empty.

“What gives you the kick, huh? Nicotine? Women? Perhaps music?” He smirked full of disgusting curiosity. I didn’t know why, but I indulged in the conversation.

“More like ancient Greece wisdom…” I was so ridiculous back then, expecting others to perceive me as that old, unimpressed soul. I glanced at the other man for a moment, eyebrows in a slight frown, mouth turned downwards, and dark eyes glistening with loathing.

When I was 19, I thought myself to be so out of reach for everyone because I had read maybe three major books about the human nature. I grunted. My eyes glanced his way for a moment before my attention shifted back to the fire. 

“So you’re a philosopher then…” that old bastard asked then leaned in towards me, invading my personal space.

“Do you mind?” I frowned and turned away from him, shielding the precious book from his curious eyes. He still managed to take a peek at what was underlined.

“Philosophy: Impersonal anxiety; refuge among anemic ideas.” The man read out loud my latest ad notation, adding a whistle at the end.

“Such a pretentious young man...She’s gonna love you.”

“What? Who’s she?”

“Oh, just our little nightingale. She’s simply the worst. Look at all of this” And he gesticulated to all the wood lying around, the unstable two-story structure and the mortar machine.

The man sighed deeply, the flames hypnotizing him into a deep sense of pity.

“. That slacker dreams day and night in her hammock about her beach club. I tell her all the time, dear, please pick up a book about administrating a business. Or economics. Or anything more practical, really.

Learn some advanced math, how to strike a deal with the merchants…things like that. But nooo…..She just won’t listen. Says those down-to-earth things appeal her .

So this spoiled brat makes us do the dirty job and build everything. What is she going to do when the Garrisons can no longer help her? We’ve been way too nice to her.”

“Well, I don’t think she forces you. You could simply refuse.” I said with my signature ‘tsch’ at the end.

“Oh, believe me, this girl’s not someone you can easily say no to. So stubborn and proud…kinda like you, she always gets it her way. But man… She’s a delight to our sore eyes: she drinks, smokes tobacco, parties like an animal. Nothing you’ll ever see in your well-mannered posh city girls.” He gesticulated all over the place, throwing out his arm, slapping his knee, you name it.

“Then what can I say, enjoy slaving under her.” I replied in a flat tone, not really interested in his clownery.

“Ehe, it’s not that simple. That girl’s all about the good stuff” He slid against the wood and threw an arm around my neck, trapping me, pulling my upper body towards his chest. I tried to pull away, I struggled as hard as I could, but his grip was too strong. I had to endure his unrequited display of friendship.

“There is no subject she can’t talk about for hours: poetry, religion, politics, dancing, you name it, she can make you feel like an idiot. And her voice…man, everyone loves her voice. The way she sings …if only you’d hear her….ohohoho that girl’s a siren” I rolled my eyes at the way he enthusiastically talked about some ditz.

“Let go of me! I don’t wanna hear about your daughter or even worse, your sugar baby!”

“Oh, If only she were any of those things, I would’ve considered my life not entirely wasted. Hahaha Speaking of the wolf, look who’s coming.” The man said and pointed towards the upper hill. So I was finally going to see the object of his admiration and bound to be completely let down. It was not hard to be disappointed in women nowadays, especially when most of the men were describing them with their other head.

Still, I was a little curious.

I shifted my gaze, following the direction and was greeted with a scene straight out of a noir film.

Six men of all sorts were carrying a long wooden table, the kind used for alcohol-filled reunions. Behind them, three more dragged some chairs, while a fourth had a big pinkish vintage armchair, with the covering peeling in different corners, chained on the back of his scooter. They were all wearing the standard hunting rifle thrown over their backs along with a Garrison jacket: a beige cheap denim with two roses patched on the back. Some of those men were decent, some were not quite sober and some probably joined the ranks because society casted them out in all the other aspects anyway.

But lo and behold, those six men were not only carrying a table. On the sturdy wood sat a small feminine figure. She was holding an accordion and played an old national song with much skill and gusto. The woman was a little far, but I could see her fingers pressing the keyboards, while a loud, talented voiced boomed from the bottom of her chest. She threw her head back, full of emotion, while all the others were accompanying her, stuck in reverie. The tune was dreamy and, like all our local songs, made you wanna get drunk to forget all the sadness.

They walked further and you could see they were enjoying every bit of the extra weight she put on the table. Those guys were not really carrying it, they were carrying _her_ , even with honor, as if she were made of glass and limited-edition.

Look, I certainly was not the type of guy who laughed, but I couldn’t hold back a puff at the sight. It looked like they were carrying a dilapidated version of Cleopatra or something. A dilapidated Cleopatra with her pack of dilapidated Che Guevaras, was I dreaming or something?

‘Guess you don’t need a golden throne to be a princess.’ I thought briefly.

When they finally reached the bottom floor of the precarious structure, they set the table under the ceiling and that creature perched on top of it hopped off with a thump. She stopped her singing and, tugging on the strap attached to the instrument, positioned her accordion behind her back.

The thing that stuck out was that she was not wearing a standard jacket. That man, Dot Pyxis, spoke about her with such familiarity, I thought she must’ve certainly belonged to his former group. Instead, she had a short black denim dress on , along with some sort of thighs full of tears and holes and peculiar high heeled clogs. That witch-of-sorts had her back turned to us and hands on her hips as she examined the handiwork of those men.

“No! No! No! Place it more to the right!” Her talking voice was so different compared to her singing one, high-pitched and far more childish. And grunts and sighs were heard in disagreement as those guides moved the table in various positions.

“Hey, darling, come over for a second!” The old geezer called her loudly, making sure to probably deafen me permanently.

“What do you want old man?! Can’t you see I’m busy?” She replied, very annoyed, turned our way, pulling copious amounts of hair out of her eyes.

“I think you’d like to meet my new friend!” That bastard yelled back.

“I’m 100% not your friend!” I spat at him, my whole face scrunching.

“I am guiding the construction of a fortress old man! I don’t have time for your-“but he cut her off instantly.

“He’s a philosopher!” And all hell broke loose. That strangely feminine beast completely abandoned her servants and sprinted our way, as fast as she could in those shoes. Behind, the last guys were putting down the chairs.

She soon reached us, barely managing to maintain her balance as she stopped like one of those cartoon characters. I heard a multitude of cheap jewelry clink in inertia, and I couldn’t form an opinion yet: Was my minimalism completely triggered by the excessive amount of earrings, bracelets and rings, or did I found it funny how she was making music, even with her mouth closed?

Perhaps I agreed with both statements. But it’s not like I pondered for too long, because in that moment, as I saw her up close, a certain realization hit me up with brute force, the first of that night.

_Holy shit._

_It was that girl from last summer._

And she must’ve read my mind, because she shifted her weight on one leg and crossed her bare arms. That woman eyed me up and down then rose one eyebrow up and pouted her mouth as if questioning reality itself.

“You look familiar…have we met before?” She asked me, and her tone seemed way to drawling to me.

Yes, we did. Almost a year ago, I asked you to call me when you’d start reading real literature and had not stopped thinking about it ever since. I still did not know what came over me that night. I was usually such a serious and held-back person… I had never acted like such a lecherous wanker before.

“Don’t think so.” I played it cool, burying back as far as possible that shameful memory. “ ‘ve never seen you before in my life” _but God, I wish I had_ I wanted to add, but only the weak ever show desperation.

Then, out of the blue, her whole expression changed: a wicked smile, brighter than the full moon, adorned her features. She shoved that old man aside, almost knocking him off the trunk, disrupting with ease the vice-like hold he had on me.

Forcefully, she sat down between us, cross legged, waddling one heeled foot, and brought herself closer and closer to me. The old man got up somehow, brushed the sand from his clothes, and went to his ex-regiment, swearing and cursing us under his moustache.

Left alone with this young beast who stepped over every notion of common sense, I was sitting across that rotting, humid trunk, while her upper body was twisted so that she was facing my right side, perpendicularly to me. Did no one in this whole damn place understand the notion of personal space? It sent shivers down my spine how impertinent those people were. I felt assaulted and offended.

When would these humans get that physical proximity did not mean a psychological one? You just couldn’t force your presence into someone else’s and expect to befriend them. A true intimacy is built on the prospect of mental connections, mutual aspirations, not a trivial need for clos-

“Wow, you’re the first philosopher I’ve ever met.” She said in utter admiration.

Hot damn, what was I thinking about? I couldn’t remember. The ideas vanished.

My frustrated ideologies went…

_Poof._ Out the window. Then nothing.

.Blank _._

_Creux._

_Leer._

She was studying me, as if _I_ were a being from another planet., when clearly it was the other way around Her curiosity was enchanting, partially because it fed my deprived of attention ego, partially because…

Her eyes. Dear Gods, her eyes simply staring down at me, wide and glistening, they made me freeze in my spot, as if _she_ were the otherworldly creature. I glanced for a long time at her long dark lashes, adorned with the tiny lights of stars. The tastefully- applied black shadow, her natural pout, rebelliously styled curls, everything was indiscreet on her.

“You’re the real deal, right? I bet you know so many interesting things…” She said yearningly. Then that _alien_ leaned to my left, covered the exposed side of the face with her hand, and whispered in my ear, as if sharing the greatest secret in the world. Her breath tickled my skin with every word, and I vehemently denied enjoying it.

“I mean, those Garrison bitches all claim themselves to be one, but to be honest with you, they think Subjectivism and Relativism are the same thing…so you can imagine what I’m dealing with.” She ended with a delightful chuckle and got back into her previous position, as if nothing happened at all.

Do you know how ornithologists wait hours after hours, in swamps or in forests, hoping to see some rare kind of bird? And just as they are so close to giving up, a supposedly extinct specimen plops right in front of them, unaware of the circumstances. That wild, feathery animal, with no apparent purpose other than possibly serving as a nice meal, totally subdues the intelligent, educated, top of the chain human. For he does not move, even if his muscle scream, even if his joints crack, to not disturb it. Because as soon as he would pounce on it, out of sheer desire for deep knowledge and study, the winged animal would fly away, scared to ever return. No person with a bit of common sense would waste the opportunity of seeing such beauty up close. So the wise man settles for the undivided, albeit brief attention of the bird.

Yeah, well, that was the perfect metaphor regarding the situation I was currently stuck in.

“Do you bother random people with annoying questions and constantly think you’re better than us?”

‘no, people annoy me, yes, I’m better than them. Also, I understood that reference to Plato’s Republica’ I wanted to answer, but no words came out. My face was cold and neutral, but my body was turned towards her completely, arms by my side, with the fingers digging into the wood. If there were anything I was genuinely proud of, it had to be my always available mask of disinterest.

Earlier, I thought so lowly of the Garrisons to do the bidding of some spoiled little girl. I underestimated the threat and fell right into the trap of her _chutzpah._

I felt as if I have shown myself bare in front of a Gorgon, no shield, no mirror.

“I’m not a full-fledged philosopher yet. The name’s Levi, by the way.” I managed to mutter somehow. She took one of my hands, which I had not extended, by the way, in both of hers, and shook it slowly, gently, her red-painted fingers gliding against mine with ease.

Never in my life had I been touched without my permission. That thing she was doing was definitely not an impersonal handshake…some audacity the girl had. I did not like it, and yet I couldn’t find the strength to pull away.

“It doesn’t matter, Socrates wasn’t famous overnight either was he? Levi, it’s a pleasure to meet you. You have such a beautiful name. It’s Jewish in origin, right? Means ‘attachment’ in Hebrew.” Damn, she was the talkative type. “ Sorry, was I racist? Are city boys easily offended? My name’s Rhea, by the way. Rhea as in…”

“As in the Greek goddess, yeah. Mother of the Olympian Gods, she was one of the last titanical deity, before her children rose up against the cruel king Saturn, putting an end to the Titan era. Considered by the mythologists as the ‘liberating maternal figure’. I know.”

She smiled so delighted, a toothy, sharp grin, her eyebrows lifted high and she held my hand even tighter.

“You’re the first person to guess that right.” Her tone was so melodic, like she was singing, not carrying a conversation with the most obnoxious man on Paradis.

“You’re kidding. You have to be joking, girl. I don’t buy it, Greek mythology is quite accessible knowledge, you couldn’t have been surrounded by idiots for so long…” I questioned, afraid of the answer. Finally, she let go of my hand.

“You’d be surprised, Levi.” And she looked at me with the same disappointment, pushing some hair behind her ear. I breathed deeply, angry with the world that even in _this place_ , which was supposed to be an oasis of cultural freedom, idiots were allowed in.

“Rhea’s quite a weird name for a baby, though. Your parents must have high expectations for you.”

“I wouldn’t know. My parents are rotting away in a political prison.” She said as a matter of fact.

“My parents are rotting 6 feet under.” I replied.

She chuckled bitterly. “Then we are more alike than I thought.”

Back at the shaky structure, the garrisons were placing some foods and plates of the table. A blonde, average man waved his hand frenetically at us.  
“Rhea, come here and help us set the table!” He yelled, obviously pissed-off.

“Get lost Hans! I’m having an interesting conversation for once!” She screamed so loud it echoed, made me clench involuntarily at the force her lungs were capable of.

“Rhea’s self-given, actually.” She said, her voice dropping back to a warm, soft volume. That transition was mesmerizing.

“That’s adorable.” _And so cool._ “You want to become a mentor of youngsters who will have more guts than you to overthrow the regime. Those who can’t do, teach. Guess that saying is true after all.”

“It, still, is an admirable dream.” She turned away from me, staring in the distance.

“ Tsch. You just want your name mentioned in history books.”

“Maybe.” She paused, moving her big, celestial orbs side to side, fidgeting in her spot. “But I’m already working on it…” And her index pointed out the far-away crowd and the unstable wood and brick structure.

“Please elaborate, oh mighty goddess.” I pressed every word with a mean irony, and the girl laugh, in unison with the clinker of her bracelets.

“I am building-”

“The Garrisons are building…” I corrected her.

“The Garrisons are building my club of awesomeness. One day, when it’s ready, I want to welcome with open arms misunderstood young people, and guide them, teach them about life, the great secrets of it, make their talent shine through, whether it be drawing, writing, dancing, singing…

I can almost see it, the wooded floors, big bookcase of forbidden books, instruments lying around…

I want to share with them every great thing that has left an impression on me, you know?. Cause what good is my knowledge, my sensibility, if I have no one to pass it to?. They will listen, I tell you. I will search day and night for answers, I will master this complicated art of living and shape their needy, violent minds.” She said with such hope, I couldn’t bring myself to roll my eyes at her childish dreams.

“Kinda like Rodin, I see.” I concluded her fantasies.

“Sorry, what?” The girl asked.

“Auguste Rodin? The French sculptor?” But she hummed with confusion. I huffed. Geez, I hated having to explain myself.

“A genius in his field, really. The guy did the Thinker, the three Adams, the big stuff anyway. His talent was recognized even during his lifetime, so naturally, many young people wanted to learn from him. He’s known for those enormous studios in Paris, where dozens of people would work as his apprentices, listening to his every word, practicing the secrets of his craft, chocking on dust and hitting their fingers with the chisel in hope to surpass the master.”

“Well, then, yes. Kinda like Rodin.” She looked funny, I had to admit, with a small blush on her face, looking away in embarrassment. Suddenly, our position from before reversed: I was turned 90 degrees to my side, studying her profile, while she retreated across the long vines of the trunk and shut up for once. Did I say something bad? If so, why did it bother me? I had no problem pissing off people before…

What’s your deal, girl?

**_To be continued…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now on a more serious note, I know this fic is not popular. Yeah, I work a lot on it and search for the most interesting things about cinema, poetry, art to share with you. But frankly, I don't write for kudos or hits. I write so that, now or maybe in ten years, someone will read this and find out about the beauty of Cioran, Faulkner, Dostoievski, whatever. If I manage to touch the soul of only one person, I consider my purpose fulfilled.
> 
> Take care of ur asses and see u soon!


	10. Levi: On the Heights of Despair Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did somebody say bonus Levi chapter? No? No one? Okay…but anyway, does anybody read the author notes? I mean, most of the time I skip them but whatevs. Enjoy part 2 of On The Heights of Despair. I thought about writing the Eren chapter then posting this one, but frankly, in my humble opinion, this way the events run more smoothly and the content from the previous chapter is fresher in your minds.  
> Kudo and review! It gives me strength!!!!

What’s your deal, girl?

But just as the silence was becoming unbearable, she was called.

‘Devil, if you wanna grab a bite, come down from your pedestal and join the mortals” Doth Pixis yelled and gestured at the big table, already prepared for feasting. She got up in an instant and sat straight, the accordion on her back protesting at the sudden movement with a cacophonic sound. I got up too, albeit more slowly, with a grunt, and stuffed my freezing hands into my pockets. The fire was no longer doing a good job at warming us up, so I put out the flames with a few kicks in the sand.

“Seems like our time’s up, Miss. Come on, I’ll take you to the others” I said, apparently disinterested, and looked down at her to grab her attention. This girl kept her gaze fixed straight ahead and…

Wait.

Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait.

Wait a second. Wait a fucking second.

Did you catch that?

‘Looked _down_ at her’

Down. Down as in below my level. Down as in shorter than me. Down as in the top of her head was only up to my nose.

Holy shit. The second realization of that night did not hit on me easily.

I, Levi Ackerman, a short 5’3 bastard, who had been frustrated his entire life because of his height, was looking _down_ at someone for once. The ~~most enticing, mesmerizing, gorgeous~~ girl must’ve been 4 inches shorter than me, and, for the rest of the world, that means 10 cm. Wow.

We were walking side by side, at a respectable distance, our steps deliberately slow. I tried to sneak few glances when I thought she wasn’t looking, and from time to time, I could feel her doing the same. The way back was quiet, and I didn’t like it. I always had something smart to say at hand, a quote, an idea or a sadistic joke. Getting close to people sounded wrong in my ears, but playing with them for a while, had a different ring to it. I had always enjoyed witnessing the highs and lows of brief companions, how they would admire me one second and detest me in the next, their obvious emotions more entertaining than any piece of literature available. Back in the day, I toyed unmercifully, like a cat did to a dying sparrow, with everything cursed enough to fall into my hands.

And I didn’t even want it. But because all my life I’ve been tossed aside when I could serve no purpose, I’ve turned into the violent dog which had only known the licking of the whip.

I wondered why she didn’t speak anymore. Where was her earlier enthusiasm and bravery? From time to time, her mouth opened and closed, but the words died in her throat. We were silent and cheerless as if we were taking part of a funeral procession.

I pulled out the cigarette pack from my inner pocket and took one out with my mouth. Then, I offered the pack to her, and she grabbed one long white stick with confidence. She whispered a subtle ‘thank you’ with a grace I did not think she was capable of. My fingers flicked the metal wheel of my lighter and held the flame towards her, in an offering manner. Rhea’ s pretty orbs glistened in the moonlight as she tilted her head the slightest so she could lit up her cigarette.

Don’t look at me like that. Even assholes can be gentlemen.

By the time we arrived to the other men, we had left behind a trail of smoke, leading to our first encounter. Poetic cinema, I tell you.

“Seems like we part here.” I said to her, looking down at my steel-toed boots. The Garrisons were eyeing me up and down, already seated on their spots. They looked like judgmental owls, exchanging looks and already-formulated opinions through unsubtle whispers. The old man heard me, though.

“What? Are you kidding? Join us. We haven’t had a guest in a while.” Doth Pixis said and gestured to the empty spot at the head of the table. “Take a seat, I insist.”

“No, really, I wouldn’t like to bother you.” I excused myself half-heartily. The truth was, I wouldn’t like to bother _myself_ talking to a bunch of dumb, unmannered pigs.

“Come on, we have shakshuka and some locally distilled rakija.” He pressed on further. Rhea threw me a meaningful look at me and smiled warmly. I lied to myself that the food convinced me to stay.

“Alright, you got me here.” I breathed out in defeat, and let my lips rise in a very subtle smirk.

To my surprise, the others cheered in delight and some even clapped their hands. I was taken aback by their hospitality, but nevertheless sat down on my designated place. Rhea installed herself at the other end, in the big, fluffy armchair of course, and our own eyes locked a few moments.

The table was full with all kinds of delicacies. It looked like a small feast, with home-made bread, sweet pastries, cooked vegetables, all kinds of cheese, boiled eggs, and there was even a decent amount of meat. I did not ask what the occasion was, because I was slightly certain those people did not need a solid reason to celebrate.

“Let’s dig in then, Bon Appetite, everyone!” One of the men said and grabbed some garlic sticks from the bread basket. All of us followed through, putting food in our plates, as the atmosphere was rustic, rural even, but welcoming. Some useless small talk about the weather or fishes went on with the sounds of chewing, cutting and gulfing down food.

“Mister Philosopher…” The guy to my right said.

“His name’s Levi” Rhea raised her voice from the other side of the table, as she finally put out her cigarette in an ashtray.

“Levi, what do you say about some strong alcohol to open up your appetite? “ The man next to me waved a transparent, unlabeled bottle.

“Nothing but a ‘thank you’ ” Not like I needed it, the food looked so delicious, my stomach was growling at the sight.

He filled two shot glasses with clear liquid and handed one to me. It smelled really really strong, a slight sniff enough to unclog my sinuses for the next decade.

“To our health!” I said and raised the glass.

“Bottoms up!” He replied and we both downed our glasses. Dear god, that drink was something, my taste buds were traumatized . I was certain that rakija had disinfected my whole upper digestive tract.

“I see you’re not exactly faring badly” I mentioned and pointed out the rich table setting.

“ For now, for now there’s still something left” A man with deep sunken eyes and unkempt auburn beard grunted with worry as he poured wine to Rhea, like the true goddess she was.

“ Trust me boy, the Paradis citizens are bitches in their truest form: they moan all the time they don’t have this, they don’t have that, but at the end of the day they always manage.” Dot said, while the others laughed loudly to his words, with their mouths full.

“My father had a saying, may god rest his soul” He continued and spilled on purpose droplets of alcohol on the ground, as the tradition went, ‘so that the dead could have a taste too’. “In the end, everything works out!” and the whole table erupted in a Homeric, grotesque cheer. Why were they laughing at? I questioned myself. Nothing seemed funny to me, the whole picture was rather pitiful. Or

“As long as there are guides, _this place_ will survive. The question is…what will become of it when there are so few of us left? ” The perpetually disturbed man, who now had a drunk blush on his cheeks, said. Dot laughed and leaned towards me.

“Look! Look how Kitz ruins a perfect atmosphere with politics?” And he pointed at the brawler in front of him.

“Eh, with all respect commander, that’s not yet politics. Listen to me. Our numbers have been relatively stable over the past years, but that also means we have no fresh meat. Who will take our place when we’ll be sick and old? The Garrisons need recruits. I propose for the next season we force some of the summer tourists to volunteer in our ranks. “

“Oh God, will you shut it? You ruin the mood.” Dot suggested, but the brown haired man would have none of it.

“Why you tell me to shut up? We’re the most vital part of this country!” On the other side, Rhea rolled her eyes, amused by his confidence, while the rest were making various sounds of annoyance at his antics. “We defend the culture itself, we’re the protectors of art and the backbone of this whole mess! Who brings in the imported goods? Who strikes deals with the western ships? The Scouting Regiment? NO! We do! We sell to the general public 50% of the banned discs and books every year. We deserve statues at the borders for risking our life and health every fucking day! Screw you, you’re all stupid, I feel like I’m talking to retards” And he slammed his fist on the table, so hard that some food jumped from my plate. Tsch, there went the unnecessary violence. The former commander sighed.

“Go to hell, you fucking prick, sit the fuck down or my fists will convince you.” The old drunk said. “So, our squad leader affirms we don’t have members. He’s wrong. We. have. members. I mean, we have just the right amount! What we would do with them if there were more? They would just laze around all day in a pub, remodeling the world or something. Nothing but excessive workforce, and we don’t have the funds to sustain it!”

“Let me speak! Let-me-speak” Kitz said aggressively, as he got free from the grip of his colleagues trying to hold him down. “They should just volunteer, no payment needed! It’s a pleasure and an honor to be part of the Garrisons!”

“This thing with the pleasure and honor, it’s the first time I hear it!” The commander laughed.

“Ehe, then you can go fuck your mother! HeHeHe” The subordinate swore in a weird, friendship-like manner. It somehow symbolized a mutual agreement, because the others cheered at the invisible white flag. The men smiled at each other went on with their eating and drinking, finally in silence.

“And you know who’s guilty for all of this? The goddamn titans!”

“Yeah, Some pigs they are!”

“They starve the people and make everything rationalized :water, electricity, gas so that the State saves away large sums of cash. It’s so stupid, they want to rule the world by loaning money to every country with big interest rates. In the end, they’ll just eat a large amount of shit, ‘cause no one will pay the debts. And when the world will show our leaders a big “Fuck you!” and a middle finger, this country will be left with its unsecured ass out!”

He got a point, this old man, I had to give him that. I sipped from their delicious red wine and I got why most of the members were alcoholics. This imported shit was fucking tasty.

“I ain’t got much left to live, but remember this words, boys,” Then he did a dramatic pause.

“The Titan is the most stupid person on this Planet!” And the table burst out in a fit of clapping. Even I and Rhea joined the crowd, most likely because we loved a good circus show.

“That’s right!”

“cheers cheers! To our former commander! May your liver live long!” And most of them clinked their glasses, spilling booze everywhere.

“Mister Philosopher? Is it the first time you’re here?” One of the blonde younger studs asked me.

“Uh-oh. You’re being interrogated. Be careful what you say, might be used against you!” Rhea warned me, finishing her meal. She took of her accordion and placed it at the foot of the table, then sat across the armchair, her head resting on one armrest and her feet dangling over the other, lounging in it like a spoiled cat. The girl asked for a cigarette, and several men near her offered. I wiped down my mouth with a napkin, before answering the guy:

“It’s actually the second time.”

“That’s what dem girls say all the time, amiright?!?! Uh, Hans, it’s the second time I swear, I have done it only once before I met you, Hans you’re the second man in my life, blahblahblah” Everyone laughed, but I threw him the most harsh glare I could muster. What the hell was I doing in here, surrounded by uneducated, drunk pigs?

Right in front of me, Rhea crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, to show me just what she thought about those losers. Oh, there was the reason.

“Okay, okay, sorry.” The man who addressed himself as Hans continued “Maybe you could give your personal thoughts about our situation, since you’ve been a guest to this place and you’re also a real intellectual. Surely you can formulate an opinion. Don’t hold back”

Rhea mouthed to me a very concerned ‘HOLD BACK FOR GODS SAKE!’

But like hell was I going to show those apes any mercy. I fixed Hans’ blank, stale gaze, then, with utmost superiority and apathy I replied in perfect French:

“Il y a des gens si bêtes, que si une idée apparaissait à la surface de leur cerveau, elle se suiciderait, terrifiée de solitude.”

Finally, everyone shut up. I could still hear some confused ‘huhs?’ and ‘what?’, but only Rhea (who else, of course, but her) laughed at my quote, the only one to get me. The others were left flabbergasted, only confirming my earlier suspicions that they were nothing but drunk opportunistic idiots.

“So not only do you not know who said that famous quote, spoiler alert, one of the greatest philosophers of all time, but you also don’t understand French, which is one of the main languages imported books are written in. Since you’re so adamant on saving us, the dumb sheep, tell me, how do you chose what you give us? I’ll tell you how, you don’t. You just pick the ones with the most attractive cover. Your colleague spoke earlier about honor. What a joke.

You talk about honor when this whole gathering is a bunch of addicted outcasts. You’re not in for the arts, you’re in for the imported wine, cigars and brand clothes. If it weren’t for the profit, would you still defend _this place_ with might and honor? Believe me, more than half of you will run with the tail between your legs the second things turn shitty. You don’t give two fucks about what this place means. It’s more than the perfect spot to party. So spare me your savior complex, because all summer, you drink, dance and strike deals, and when the season ends, you return to your homes with valuable goods that’ll assure you a good living in the winter.

I saw what you do all day. You laze around in your cars, smoking, gossiping and occasionally transporting tourists or goods. You can’t even hold the rifles properly. The job could be done by half the people enrolled so far.

Ask your girl to translate that quote. That’s what I think about you. Mainly, that you pose as victims, when in fact, you’re the privileged ones.” And that’s how I ended my small hate-speech. I leaned back in my chair and crossed my legs. Boy, their faces were priceless, some even had their mouths open in shock. On the other side, Rhea took a long drag, and exhaled the smoke, smirking cheekily, noticeably impressed by my bluntness. I returned her smile in the slightest.

The first to break the silence was who else but the nice cirrhotic geezer. 

“Tell you what, you’re really as annoying as a Greek philosopher. I like you boy, you’ll make good company when we meet in hell. “ He gave me a naughty smile and grabbed one of those bottles of strong, clear burning rakija. “Wanna Bruderschaft?” He asked and I considered it, but seeing Rhea vehemently cross her arms out like a windmill and move her head in denial, the message was clear.

“Sorry, it’s not my type.” She breathed out in relief, and I placed my elbows on the table, chin resting in my hands.

He then literally downed most of the content. Ladies and gentlemen, this sick, dying old man was drinking hard alcohol like water. I internally cringed when I saw him take gulp after gulp, thankful for that girl’s warning. Man, his stomach was made of steel. The others stared at him as he indulged in an impossible amount of liquor. Many seconds had passed until he reached his limit, leaving the bottle more than half empty. He slammed it very hard on the table, the noise echoing , a strong scrunch on his face. With his eyes closed and a pained yet eager voice, he screamed:

“Rhea, you devil of a girl, if you don’t get up and sing RIGHT NOW, I’ll set your club on fire. I’ll deliver you to the Titans and be done with you forever!”

And that girl sat up in an instant, saluting the commander in a childish, mocking manner.

“Yes sir! Long you live! What should I play for you?”

“Darling, that one I like!” He urged her.

“Your wish is my command!” she cheered eagerly and put on her accordion. After testing her instrument, she hit the keyboards and the voice carried a simple, yet fiery tune. She sang great, obviously.

One foot on the hard wood, then the other, Rhea got up on the table, happily entertaining me and those nobodies that were singing along.

But that description seemed so superficial and vulgar. You see, that girl didn’t simply _got up_ on the table, she rose, in slow motion, with the grace of an awakening myth.

Rhea was more than playing, she was dancing, swinging around, her steps exaggerated, as the Garrisons, mesmerized by her, cleared out all the plates so that she could do as she pleased.

She also didn’t simply sing, per se, that girl interpreted. She played with us, her mortals, out of boredom, like a child would with rubber toys. And no one questioned their servitude, for you do not fight it when the rare bird finally sings on your shoulder. Rhea left the drunk men’s squeals and waltzed to me, with an effortless charm, marching into my existence the way bad luck so often did. I should have been more careful, I should have looked away instead of resting my head in my palm and staring at this girl, the masterpiece of a giddy creator.

The moon continued its descending journey, while I was sure the next morning would greet me with pain in my lower back and a terrible headache. But right then and there, up on the table, in front of me, the creature graced me with a piece of her world and I considered myself happy. She left behind her good intentions: Rhea became the true goddess to her name, calling for my admiration. And the best part was that she didn’t even have to ask for it out loud, I gave it to her willingly.

With each movement, with each jump, her clothes, hair and jewelry framed her unnaturally, in circular patterns, as if she were right in front of me, but at the same time, in another dimension with zero gravity. She gave the impression that any moment now, she would start floating and no one would question it, because every man at the table including your favorite misanthropist completely accepted how the Universe had chosen her to prove how ridiculous its fundaments truly were .The anticipation was driving me insane.

The song accompanied the transformation: it had a slow yet emphasizing beat and she changed the notes a little, shifting the song to some special minor scale that could give an undisputed sensuality to every music.

I’d heard the song before, never thought much about it, but she made it sound, with her sweet vocal chords and undisputed madness, like one of the greatest masterpieces that made life worth living:

“ _So come on, believe me  
Follow me home  
There's no judgment here  
_ _We'll laugh a little, drink a little_ _  
See what you're made of  
_ _I'm capable of making you disappear  
I am the agent that decides your fate_ _.”_

Oh, didn’t I love to notice the subtlety of those lyrics? I’ll leave it to you, my readers, to find out what they really mean.

Time flowed so unnaturally, it was early morning already, the moon long gone as the first rays of sunshine were beaming.

And do you know how I figured that out?

It was because she had her back to the sun, and so the golden lights surrounded her figure. She stopped her dancing and stood on the table, illuminated by the sunrise, while I was helpless in the face of her ancestral beauty. A halo framed her pretty features, as if further reassuring me things would, from now on, fall into place, that she had finally arrived, guided by my unspoken prayers, from the world beyond I wanted to escape to.

I felt an intruder, like a low scum who had been allowed to witness a theogony. Every move I made, every breath seemed barbaric, clumsy and uncoordinated compared to the way she weaved with skill her own destiny ~~together with mine~~. With light radiating from her pores, she defined the notion of an ongoing world. As every second passed, she shaped and reshaped my tiny world with her voice.

Rhea gave me the impression she was the embodiment of reality itself. She was, simultaneously, the creator, the preserver and the destroyer. The others became a blur at her will, everything slowly vanished, until all that she gave permission to be were me, the sea and the table. That girl openly flirted with and teased all my notions of truth, but between me and her, I wanted more of whatever this was. This feeling about how…

I thought the Universe existed solely because we did.

She squatted down in front of me, her indifferent admirer, as she hit the final notes. There we were, with our eyes locked, speechless, both slightly panting. No words were needed.

If we were easy prey, we would have kissed right there. But because awoken spirits come with an even greater pride, we pretended it was all just a song.

The surrealism of the moment slowly dissipated into thin air and she jumped off from the table. Those sober enough clapped, including me.

“Come on everyone, let’s go watch the sunrise on the beach!” the blonde man, Hans, screamed with joy. All the others agreed in drunk yells and delighted cheers , and off we went.

We had to walk a noticeable distance to the shore, around 300 meters, through winds, weeds and occasional sand in our eyes . Hans was not in the mood for walking, so he (not so) wisely decided to drive his scooter shit-faced drunk. That was, if you could call it scooter. It was more like a bike with a rusty small engine attached under it.

I was side by side with Pyxis, while Rhea walked in front of us, hugging herself and slightly shivering from the cold. Or to rephrase that, we were following her. The temperature dropped considerably as we got closer to the water, I was thankful for my jacket and boots, now that the alcohol wore off.

“Hey, commander, I was wondering…” but his hiccups weren’t much of an answer. “ have you lead many people _here_?”

“Not as much as I would’ve liked” He said with tangible sadness.

“we-eh, well, it’s all the same, that’s not the point. Why did they come _here?_ What did they want?”

“Happiness, I guess, like everyone else.”

“Well, yes, of course, but what kind of happiness? Didn’t they ever tell you?.”

“People do not like to speak about their innermost feelings. I mean, look at you, you’re the perfect example for that. Why does it concern you?” He questioned, but my gazed was fixed on the horizon.

“Personal reasons...”

“See? Just what I was saying…”

“In any case, you’ve been lucky. I have never seen one happy man in my life.” I pondered, pressing down the horrible memories of my childhood. To my surprise, he swung his arm around my shoulders again. He looked so deep in thought, like a prophet of an abandoned belief, I so wanted to listen to him. But good grief... _that smell_.

“Me neither. At the end of every summer, I used to lead back a flock of unfulfilled people, to the walls and to the barbered wire; most of them returned to their ordinary lives and I’d never seen them again.” He pauses to stare at his comrades in front of us.

“Eheee, I fuck all your mothers in the ass!” Hans yelled over the sounds of his rusty scooter as he passed by, almost clashing into us.

“it’s not that wishes become true immediately...but you find wonders in here that make everything else pale in comparison.” He realsed me and went right behind Rhea.

“The Pyramids? They’re shit.

The gardens of Babylon? Shit.

The Colossus of Rhodes? Utterly shit.” And then Dot grabbed the girl into his arms, swinging her up, holding her princess-style. She yelped in a joyful surprise, along with her tortured accordion, but let him carry her.

“Look at this!” He spun her around, showing her to me, as Rhea laughed deeply amused, throwing her head back.

“The Eldian woman, who can be your mother, lover, child, all simultaneously… With her eyes, her lips, her tits! She is the _true_ wonder of the world!” Pyxis spun her around a few times then put her down, while the others sang obscene party songs.

When this whole satirical suite reached the shore, the sun was only a quarter out. Its light reflected in the water, casting a perfect combination of reds and oranges. The blonde man was waiting for his comrades, pushing his vehicle towards us.

“Miss Rhea asks why we didn’t build her music lair earlier. “ He began angrily. The girl sighed in exasperation, pressing a hand to her forehead. “ How could we have done so, when we were there at the walls, facing the Titans?! We were the shield to _this place_ , misters! Meanwhile, our little Miss was on the beach, sipping one of her cocktails and dreaming to be a mentor! I piss in your cocktails, Rhea!” The girl stopped by my side, crossing her arms.

“Ehee Hans!” She said “ But did the Titans drink for two years in a row my funds for the club? Say it, did the Titans drink it all?” Her consternation was so childish an innocent, no match for that pervert’s ferociousness.

“What funds!? We never have money!” and various cheers and swears supported him.

“Long live the Garrisons!”  
“May our worst days be like this!”

“Eat my ass, Titans! Yuhuu!”

“Ayyy, captains! How about a happy song to lift our sour mood?”

And so their filthy mouths began singing various songs about women and alcohol.

Rhea and I looked at each other, and both of us burst out in defeated laughs from our noses, hers louder than mine, obviously.

“Can you believe these guys?” she asked me.

“They look as if only yesterday they had descended from the trees…” And she laughed so that she finished all my attempts to prolong the conversation. We stayed there a little longer, side by side, observing like a ruling pair of disappointed gods the grotesque display in front of us.

“Some people are so stupid, that if one day an idea appeared on the surface of their brain, it would commit suicide, terrified of loneliness. That’s what you said earlier about them. It’s from…AH! I remember! The _Book of Delusions._ ” She broke the silence.

“Exactly. You French is spot on, brat”

“It is, after all, the language of love” She chuckled and really, what the hell was I supposed to make out of that statement? The fuck did she mean? Women were indeed another species…

“Hey…” I stammered, so unlike me. “Do you-maybe…I don’t know…do you wanna get out of here? I mean…the sunrise is nice and it looks like…”  
“We’re missing it. Just what I was thinking. Come on, lead the way.” She gestured for me to move.

So we left the monkeys behind, without saying goodbye, and went to look for a wood bench or some other tree trunk. It was always full of those around _here_ , people really liked to watch the sunrise.

We got pretty far until we found something suitable. We rested our tired bodies on a deformed bench, covered by green algae in some spots. The guides’ song were a dim cacophonic sound in the distance, as two lost souls sat 3 feet apart, enjoying the sight.

It was delectable, really. Even her cluttering teeth and audible shivers were kinda cute for my sadistic tastes. She really should’ve brought a jacket or something.

“How about you play something?” She gave me one of those mean looks, but nevertheless took the accordion from her back and put in on her lap. Rhea pressed some keys, but she shortly gave up.

“Oh god, this was a bad idea! It’s freezing!” she burst out in frustration. “I’m going home, I’m not catching a cold _this time._ ”

“What? Hey, the fuck? You said you wanted to catch the sunrise.” I spoke in indignation.

“You can stay and watch it for all I care. I rarely ever miss one. But how can I play when I can’t even feel my fingers?”

My god. Okay. Fine, Universe, I got it. I knew what I had to do, you always send your messages loud and clear. Whatever the princess wished for, right? I sighed and got up from my spot, circling the bench until I was behind her. With approximately zero ounces of regret, I took off my big, puffy leather coat and draped it across her shoulders. My hands lingered more than they should, grasping for a second the soft flesh under my fingers. It felt so surreal to touch her, I wondered what great deed must I have done in past lives to be allowed, even for a second, to fondle the sweet arches of her clavicles.

“Better?” I asked and looked down at the top of her head. Rhea clutched my coat closer to her form and tilted her head backwards, until I saw again her beautifully colored eyes.

“Better.” Her kind smile almost took my breath away. Almost, I lied to myself. I resumed my previous spot by her side and did not dare to look at this creature again.

“What do you want me to play? How about that song from earlier?”

“Something different please.” I could certainly not handle another sensual deconstructing-reconstructing of reality.

“Like what?”

I lit a Marlboro and took a long drag out of it.

“I don’t know.” I exhaled. “What would you play in the opening credits of the greatest love story ever told?”

“I have the perfect idea...” and her red fingertips began once more a hypnotizing routine.

‘Do you now, princess?’ I wanted to ask but then she began another song, this one warmer, gentler, and talking felt rude. The sun was gorgeous in its predictable color pattern, her head was leaned to one side and the song carried on as the third realization dwelled upon me:

_Are you feeling upside down  
Or even empty inside?  
I have a couple different faces  
If you need a place to hide…_

Hell, maybe this existence isn’t so bad.

And that’s basically how our story began for a second time. The scenery of us, alone on the beach, watching the sunrise with a sad song playing would be forever etched into my brain. As I have recalled the memory many times in front of the typewriter, I tried over and over again to recapture the immense beauty of it. I’d searched in all the dictionaries synonyms for ‘paradise’, I’d looked up the names for every shade of red, I’ve geometrically depicted the curve of her beautiful nose.

But alas, I am merely a mediocre writer, and I have given up trying to revive in sterile papers the tremendous simplicity of the moment. No matter how much I’d explain it, you just had to be there to get it.

Even then, back on the beach with Rhea, I did not feel the need to talk, to think anymore. I stopped attributing a nice neologism to every of her movements. Words were simply not enough.

For once in my life, I stopped trying to make a sense out of everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this utterly unrealistic chapter of how we want men to perceive us. Bash me in the comment however you please, this fic is all about the surreal being finally fulfilled and stepping over logic and common sense. You might wonder, hey, no normal person, especially one as cold and as rational as Levi, would suddenly adulate a random pretty girl with nerve. Well guess what dears, this ain’t the real world.  
> Also, dearest bitches, I have decided to list the content I get inspired from. This chapter includes ideas from: Tarkowski’s Stalker, The Oak tree ( a post-communist movie) and Cioran’s Book of Dellusions. Also that part with 'the creator, the preserver and the destroyer' is derived from the Hindu religion. Hopefully no one is offended that i take inspiration from their religion. The songs included are by Amigo the Devil, called Weight and Dahmer does Hollywood, I recommend you listen to them.  
> My friends be like, Eve, you can’t just write individual fictional characters based on different parts of your personality.  
> LoL. Watch me.


	11. Eren: Uncle Vanya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to everyone still reading this! Hope you are doing well. Since this chapter is named after Uncle Vanya, which is a stage play, I kind of split it in three acts. So fetch~
> 
> The picture is not mine! I found it on a influencer's instagram under the name @mariludobrescu . I always credit the pictures I insert in here!
> 
> This chapter has both main couples in it so it's kinda like compulsory to read regardless of what you're here for.
> 
> On a more serious note PLEASE READ THIS!!!!!!! THIS CHAPTER IS IN THE VERY LEAST PROBLEMATIC!!!!!! They don’t represent my current opinions on what I consider acceptable, but the characters’. This chap includes mild mild mild allusions to suicide, references to Lolita, and toxic behavior in a relationship. Nothing too extreme though, don’t worry, Mikasa has been through worst in canon. In my humble opinion, to be a flawed character acting irrational it’s part of the human nature!  
> Anyway have fun reading!!!! Kisses!

Act One, Last Summer, _there,_ Mikasa.

It was another afternoon that invited the residents to a lazy way of living. The middle of a hot August brought cool breezes and none of the three teenagers were in a rush to get home. In truth, life was far more interesting _there_ , where they were allowed to be imperfect, drunk, happy, promiscuous, surrounded by good music and generous bartenders.

The change of scenery was very well received, especially by Armin. On the first week, he insisted capturing every street and corner shop on film. And neither Eren nor Mikasa could blame him. Last summer, they felt as if they have stepped through a portal into another world.

Every place was unique and had its own personality and clientele. You could be a hippie, a biker or just looking for some fun, and guaranteed _there_ had spot for your tastes: ‘ Forget me not’ went really vintage and played swing music, 30’s and 40’s hits and even had their own live bad, whereas ‘Mandala’ had the ‘ best of Woodstock: volume one and two’ nonstop on repeat. The really big guys gathered at ‘the Pirates’ and ‘The Fool’s’ had a little bit of everything, along with the best locally brewed Jaegermeister. But no matter how loud the music was in other clubs or what type of rum different lounges served, there was no cooler place to hang out at than ‘Rodin’s’.

‘Rodin’s’ was, to say the least, eccentric. Perched up on a small hill, the art-deco building stood with pride, defying every law of physics. It had large windows adorned with long heavy curtains on the top and an open space lounge on the ground floor.

Although the house had several rooms, accommodation was not available, and the reason was simple: Rodin’s dealt not only with music, but with all kinds of art. Movies were projected on the house’s façade, dance lessons took place on the sand, essays and poems were read on the porch every night, folk songs were played by camp fires and everyone, young or old, had a chance to express themselves. And all kinds of art required all kinds of props who constantly cluttered and occupied the surface, until almost no one could sleep and eat there.Back when it first opened, the concept had been so interesting, its popularity skyrocketed. Soon enough, it became the most notorious ‘forbidden art-shelter’, as the others called it, and from late spring until early fall, it was packed with people.

And it was all thanks to the great efforts of the owner. Nicknamed after her greatest addition to this place, Miss Rodin not only allowed everyone to share their talent, but she also advised and guided the more inexperienced ones, helping as much as possible. Her specialty was music of all sorts, but with the help of a vast experience and a library with illegal books on every subject imaginable, she could formulate an opinion about almost everything. You needed to improve your singing? She was your woman. For writer’s block? Recommendations were pouring to get inspired from. Lacan’s theory is too complex for you? She would spend hours trying to explain as best as she could. Painting is your thing? Get prepared for her to drag you to the best sceneries _this place_ had.

They all found the woman a bit strange with her whole ‘Mother Theresa’ complex, but didn’t question it. The owner had to be the saddest and the most interesting specimen you had ever seen. She took great care of her appearance, sporting make-up, different hairstyles and an impressive collection of long dresses, but still couldn’t shake off the image that something bad happened to her a long time ago.

It is rumored no one witnessed her playing a happy song in ages; every time she picked up an instrument, the melody coming out was either sad, melancholic or dreamy. Despite all this, people still loved her.

Soon enough, the three of them took advantage of her knowledge and good-will and entered under her tutelage.

It had been a very smart decision. They were learning a little bit of everything about the world’s old and new cultural waves, while crafting their passion day and night. Always with a smart answer at hand and an immense patience to listen to them, Miss Rodin slowly but surely had gotten closer to the three of them more than any adult ever could.

Under the boss’ guidance, Mikasa had written an insane amount of free verse poems while Armin practiced almost all known techniques in photography. Eren was…a different story.

For the past two weeks, in that secluded world beyond the walls, Mikasa had been spending a honeymoon with him. Free from other’s judgmental looks, her green-eyed rebel blessed her with luxurious cuddle sessions on the beach every night. Watching the wave until sunrise, wrapped in his arms, gave Mikasa a sensation like none other: that, for once, she was living the poem instead of writing it. She never wanted summer to end.

“Eren, where are you?” she shouted as her legs carried her through various room, all excessively packed. Mikasa always tripped over a book or a pair of shoes left on the floor. ‘Jeez, for someone considered to be the greatest mentor of her generation, that woman still has a lot to learn about organizing her lair.’ the young girl thought.

Some figures moving in the living room and she went straight to the source. Her feet tapped on the wooden floor as she slided the heavy white Frech door.

“Eren, there you are, I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” she exclaimed in delight.

However, the boy had other business in mind. He was in deep focus, mouth agape and frowning as he was strumming a guitar. Eren sat on the edge of the dining table, dressed in light, summer clothes, while carefully watching every move of his fingers. His voice followed its own melody, a little off with the guitar notes, but still so warm and expressive, Mikasa turned into a puddle of goo.

He would get it right this time, especially with such a pretty audience, he thought as he stole a glance at her. It would be a long way until he exceeded in music, but his clumsy interpretation of the song brought serenity in the room. By his side, a woman lounged on the wood, dressed in a long velvet dress. A slit on the side exposed one of her bent legs, clad in stockings with intricate designs. She was not watching Eren directly, opting instead to look out the window, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t paying attention. Her features held a disconnected look while her head nodded in the rhythm of Eren’s song.

The woman occasionally played with the elastic band of her stocking while the boy broke a sweat trying to get the notes right and sing accordingly. Mikasa admired the sight: two beautiful people, one perpetually lost in life and the other following the footsteps of the latter, the afternoon lights casting perfect shades on them. ‘This is a Renaissance painting.’ she thought.

Eren winked at the young girl before his pretty eyes held hers, completely penetrating layers upon layers of stoicism, as the final chorus poured from his mouth.

“ _To die by your side,_

_Is such a heavenly way to die…”_

Mikasa imagined he was singing about her. Eren hoped she realized he was, in fact, singing about her.

The song came to a decent end. Putting his guitar down, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and Mikasa didn’t fail to notice the nice arch of his biceps. He smirked all-knowingly when he caught her staring. Day by day Eren was discovering a promiscuous side of his personality and there was nothing anyone could do about it. As a result, most of the summer residents of the club witnessed the boy’s flirting getting more crafted, his touch more studied and overall he developed a constantly- defiant naughty attitude. And just when he was stepping on the thin line between tease and easy target, the boy turned his admirers down on the premise he was still seventeen and didn’t want trouble.

Eren really was a heartthrob. Everyone had fantasies about him.

The girls.

Even the boys.

Even some people who shouldn’t be fantasizing about a seventeen year old. He was, to quote himself ‘the anarchist genderbend version of Sue Lyon’s Lolita”, as problematic as it sounded. Miss Rodin wondered when she would meet a teenager not passionate about all things controversial.

And still, it was one person he chose not to turn down. And it made Mikasa’s self-confidence sky rocket.

“Again.” The woman spoke in a disinterested tone and didn’t even take her eyes off the window.

“Oh my god Miss Rodin, you can’t be serious!” Eren yelled, frustrated and very sad.

“I wanna be an actor, not the next rock star!” He went on. “What’s the use of all this? I should be learning stage fight right now!”

“Boy, listen” Miss Rodin said. “You came to me half-begging to teach you everything I know. If you don’t like it my way, you’re free to go and pave your own road.” She gestured to the outside matter-o-factly.

But trust me, the theater stage is a far greater nemesis than you think. You brag all day how acting ‘the supreme vocation.’ is Do you know why it is so?

Because, as you’re sitting there, in front of an audience, who might not be as forgiving as your girlfriend right here,” and pointed to the black-haired girl in the doorframe.” You have to give them your all:

For the lines, you have to know your way with words better than a poet,

for the way you recite them, you must know your voice better than a singer on a live concert,

for the way you move, you gotta be the image painters see once in their dreams. Are you throwing yourself in the battle empty handed?”

So Eren, humiliated and obedient, didn’t reply and began to play once more. Mikasa took a short glimpse at him, gritted her teeth and stormed out of the room, not wanting to look back. He never listened like that to her, not even when it was for his own good, without putting up a fight.

He chose to dedicate himself to a complete stranger, sure, a very smart and charming stranger, but still a stranger, instead of her, his pillar of support, who had been there for him since day one, through thick and thin.

A single tear rolled down. Betrayal did not look good on her. She viciously wiped it down.

‘What do I have to do, Eren, for me to be truly yours and for you to be mine and mine alone?’

He promised her things were finally going in the right direction, that his feelings were genuine. Every night they spent embracing and kissing he reassured her that they would be real this time, them, together, as a couple. She balled her fists. That the games were over.

But she knew all of this was temporary.

She knew what was going to happened when they would return back home: hiding, hiding, and more hiding.

Act Two, Present day, Eren and Mikasa

Eren is rushing down the corridors. He storms past his classmates, past the ‘no running in the hallway’ sign, past boring teachers. Occasionally, he bumps into stupid people, without even saying sorry. He manages to bother three people per second, but his inner turmoil is stronger and his problems demand attention _now._

In an empty classroom, Mr. Ackerman is grading his student’s papers. From time to time, he takes a sip from his tea while readjusting his glasses. They are uncomfortable, both in shape and in the way they remind him he is slowly growing old. Time has become his enemy. He too, as unlikely as he thought once, will grow old and cripple until he’ll be nothing more than a burden. Day by day, a pain in his joints, a sore throat or a pounding headache proves he has never been truly invincible. It was all an illusion of his younger years, a memory buried between warm shores and arms of a beautiful girl.

All of a sudden, the door slams against the wall, but he remains still, unbothered. People had a habit of interrupting his life anyway, might as well get used to it. 

A student from his homeroom class invites himself in without a care in the world. He’s wearing a red flannel shirt over his compulsory t-shirt and a black beanie. The young boy scans the room for a brief moment, then takes a random chair from the first rows. He violently brings it on the other side of the teacher’s desk and plops down in it. Throwing his backpack on the floor, he puts his elbows on the table and leans in uncomfortably close. Right now, the boy looks like he might start crying or throw something on fire.

Levi recognizes him. Who doesn’t know Eren, after all? He sure stands out since he’s going through a ‘misunderstood rebel’ phase. His attendance is shit, he wears leather pants instead of his uniform and talks back to the teachers. And since the show he puts on school grounds isn’t enough, that boy is also the leader of the junior year theater band. No day passes without Mr. Ackerman receiving complaints about him from the other teachers:

“I caught him reading Camus under his desk instead of paying attention to my class!”

“He switched the Liszt record I had prepared for class with Guns n Roses.”  
“Yesterday he went to school dressed as Charlie Chaplin! Moustache and all! Mr. Ackerman, this is unacceptable!”

Levi feels like bursting out laughing every time he hears about the freshest mischief. He holds himself back, keeping his stoic face and hopes Eren doesn’t peak in high school.

“Listen, I know you’re probably not in the mood for this,” The boy begins.

“That’s right, brat. I’m not.”

“But I thought you should know: _i DON’T WANNA BE ALIVE ANYMORE!_ “ Eren almost screams. If only Levi had not heard all of the following before… “I wanna die so bad. Jump in front of a truck, drink poison, get diagnosed with stage four cancer I don’t know! Anything goes as long as it puts me out of my misery. But suicide is so much trouble! And it would make mom way too sad. “He wails, too dramatically to be taken seriously. “I just wish I wasn’t born at all.”

“Geez kid, me too.” The teacher answers, not even looking up from the assignments. ‘Damn, those teens are tryin’ to prove they’re shit when they can’t even spell right.’

“What? “ His face visibly drops in surprise. Eren is so expressive, like an open book, you can literally know what he is going to say before he even opens his mouth. And his constant demands for attention are really irritating. “You’re not supposed to say that…”

“What am I supposed to say then?” Mr. Ackerman asks as he scribbles something in red ink.

“I don’t know…things like ‘come on Eren, life’s not that bad’ or ‘you’re young and so many beautiful things await for you’ or listen to my problems. Give me some advice, like any teacher would. Aren’t you obliged by some laws to look out after your students?”

“Unfortunately for you,” And Levi takes out a page from a file and waves it in front of Eren’s nose. “Erwin knew exactly what he was dealing with back when he hired me. So he printed out the long list of duties I have as a teacher. Let me just go over them real quick.” The man scans the page, his grey orbs briefly re-reading paragraphs.

“Just as I thought. It says nowhere here that I should listen to teenage tantrums. What am I, your therapist?”

Eren jumps to his feet, almost knocking the chair over, very disturbed that he’s not getting what he wants. He is close to tears, hurt and indignant, a dangerous combination, of course. Levi knows all about it.

“You are gonna get so fired when I actually do it!” He shrieks.

Levi exhales and leans back in his chair. Taking his glasses off, he pinches the bridge of his nose. This is why he’s been getting all those white hairs.

“Sit down, drama queen.” And the boy follows the order, looking to the side like a four-year-old.

“What happened this time?” Levi mutters, softer than he would like. Eren smiles.

Back at their cozy domestic nest, Mikasa hugs herself in her bed, stealing glances at the telephone she has dragged all the way from the living room. The girl has not waited for Eren today, or yesterday, or the day before. Her adoptive parents ask her what’s wrong. The girl keeps her mouth shut until they grow tired of trying and leave her alone.

But although she tries to man up and pretend her loneliness is part of her character development, deep down, she wishes there was someone to talk to. In the face of our greatest demises, we stand alone, she knows that, but her life has recently been a mere tangled mess of disappointments, let downs and unfortunate events. And she’s so scared to cut the Gordian knot on her own.

Mikasa is currently going over the telephone numbers in her personal agenda. She reads familiar names, people she talks to everyday, classmates she considers friends, girls and boys whose problems she has listened to and should return the favor. And yet, she can’t phone a single person. Not because her problem is delicate, but because she knows no one would answer. Nobody will put her above their own peace and tranquility. Even though she has done so before. Even though she believes helping others is the fundament of humanity, she is ultimately surrounded by people who dart out the second she’s not of use to them.

And even if they have some time to spare, they will pretend to listen to everything, adding an approbative nod here and there, and she will be interrupted halfway with a ‘girl, that’s so sad, but wait until you hear what happened to me…’.

She truly prefers hearing her own sobs to a conversation where one mainly tests how their repetitive dramas sound out loud. She can’t take any more of those endless enumerations of things that should be important, but turn out hollow.

People are selfish, she knows that too. It doesn’t make it hurt less.

But let’s be real now, what’s the point of talking about your greatest fears, your taste in men or your hopes and dreams if everyone only sees your ideas as a reason to talk about theirs?

The walls are suffocating. With the mascara running down her cheeks, she stops herself before there’s a chance to wipe down fat tears with her red scarf. The girl doesn’t want to get it dirty, it would be a nightmare to manually wash it, but in the same time, she longs for Eren’s first gift to her to be soaked in tears.

That way, the illusion can persist a little longer; the deception that he’s, in fact, comforting her.

Mikasa envies him. Even though she’s the valedictorian and a clean, neat girl, good in sports but also in math and literature, they all pale compared to Eren’s bravery, to his faith in his dreams, to his will to fight even though no one would stand by his side. People have high expectations of her because she has straight A’s, but his mediocre grades grant him a freedom she will never have.

While she relies on grown-up’s praises, he needs no one and lets nobody stand in his way. Perhaps that’s why Mikasa feels like a side character in her own coming-of-age story. Eren is the one that deserves the spotlight, and everyone acknowledges it.

With no one to turn to, pale fingers form a familiar number on the telephone. She’s the worst for sure. The scum of the Earth. She shouldn’t bother Miss Rodin with her teenage tragedies, that woman already has enough on her plate. Mikasa scolds herself, but can’t put the speaker down anymore.

“Sorry to inform you, but _Rodin’s_ is currently closed for visitors.” A gentle voice answers at the other end of the phone. Mikasa’s chin is trembling.

“Miss Rodin, it’s me. I’m sorry…I’m sorry for bothering you like this …” She finally allows her voice to crack.

“it’s just, I didn’t know who else to call…I know, I know you’re busy with packing up and cleaning the house but…there’s no one to talk to these days.” The girl whispers as she twists the telephone cord around her pointer. Miss Rodin huffs at the other end.

“Aww, birdie, come on. Why are you so upset? “A bitter smile creeps on her painted lips. She doesn’t let the kids now, but she’s so happy every time the telephone rings, even if it brings bad news, because it means the world beyond has not fallen yet. Yes, she understands, they are still there on the other side, hidden behind walls, her friends and apprentices are living. They are alive and well, will return next summer and ressurect her too.

“I don’t know, I don’t even know, there’s only misery and, and…” Mikasa takes a deep breath and tries to calm down. It doesn’t work.

“Eren acted like an asshole again, didn’t he?”

“Of course he did. But guess what? This time I bit back. Put an end on…whatever we had. I lashed out at him, let out all the pent up emotions. But it didn’t make the weight step off my chest, not in the slightest, Miss Rodin.

Everyone told me this was the rational thing to do. Finish things with him, I mean. To be honest with you, I couldn’t help a dramatic exit, but still.

There has always been only one scenario available for us and it doesn’t have a happy ending.

And yet, I can’t shake off the feeling that I made the wrong choice. Walking out of somebody’s life and locking the door behind you is such a hard thing to do. Not looking back and forgetting is definitely not my style. I always want to leave it cracked, just in case there’s a change of heart.”

Miss Rodin patiently listens to her, biting her lower lip and gazing at the waves. _There,_ in the cold, deserted house, she wraps her wool-lined coat tighter. If only Mikasa knew how familiar she is with everything she’s saying…

“So that’s the short version of it.” Eren finishes and is playing with his thumbs. The anticipation consumes him. Levi takes a glance at his watch to notice how much time he has wasted so far.

“Damn, if that’s the short version, I’m really not interested in the long one.”

“Well, do you have any advice for me?” The boy sheepishly asks.

“Yeah, stop being a dick.” Levi grunts.

“Are you allowed to say that to a student?” Eren squints his eyes like he’s cheekily threatening him.

“I get away with most things, in case you haven’t noticed how I teach my classes. Still, it would have been easier to prevent all of this from happening. Why did you act like such an asshole to this girl? ”

The teen folds his arms on the desk and rests his head on top of them. He ponders for a while before he speaks again.

“I’m afraid. Not of us failing. But of us winning. Somehow we’ll fool everyone and end up as a couple. Then what? Swore eternal love, get married and watch ourselves become ghosts of what we once wore? What if after getting what I want, I realize it’s not what I _need?_

I’m so afraid all we are gonna get are first row tickets to the show of wasting away everything we admire about each other. I mean, look what I’ve found…” He stops to grab his backpack left on the floor. With trembling fingers, he opens the zipper, takes out a big square and supports it standing so that his teacher sees the cover.

“Do you know what this is?” Eren asks, fuming. Levi questions the boy’s sanity.

“it’s a record.”

“Wrong! It’s an illegal record! Are you blind? This is The Rolling Stones. And what’s more, this isn’t mine. It’s mom’s. Did you hear that? MOM’S. My mother, who is the most dull, boring, domestic, stuck-up person in the world, used to listen to rock when she was younger. “Eren blabbers while Levi leans back in his chair.

“And if you listen to this music you _have_ to be cool, it’s a requirement. Then she married my father and what the hell happened? All she ever does is follow an outdated moral code and think about what she’s cooking for dinner. She’s not even happy with dad, all they ever do all day is argue. I can’t imagine her dancing and singing along to ‘Paint it black’.

The more I play this record, Mr. Ackermann, the more I realize there is no happy ever after. Love ruins everything. You trust someone completely, let them guide your life until one day the reflection in the mirror is everything you swore you wouldn’t become. I don’t want that to happen to me.”

“I disagree.” The man says raising his shoulders.

“How can you disagree when even the great philosopher Kierkegaard affirms romantic love is the greatest demise of man?”

Levi raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms.

“ Brat, can you even spell ‘Kierkegaard’?”

Eren visibly blushes and squirms in his seat, mumbling an ‘ughh…’

“Kid, listen.” Levi interrupts him and turns serious. “Just because some famous guy wrote it with nice words doesn’t mean it’s true.

Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this since you’re quite a rascal and the principal hates threats on our authority.” Levi pauses, choosing his words carefully. “But you give adults too much credit. In truth, we haven’t gotten all figured out.”

Mikasa is letting words out of her mouth pour like she’s a broken faucet: how she waited for Eren and he didn’t show up, the heartbreak, how she lashed out at him, her fling with Annie in an attempt to forget him, more heartbreak, the way his eyes have felt on the back of her neck for the past two weeks, arguments and shouts when she gave up her role from the school play, Eren against the world on his own, heartbreak over and over. She stutters and doesn’t hold back on the swear words, and the girl is worried it all comes out wrong, that the road between her heart and the others is still incomplete because of she’s still too stupid to express herself. Her clumsy storytelling comes to an end, and she can finally take a deep breath. Miss Rodin emits a weird sound, something between a chuckle and a huff.

“Sweetheart, forgive him, for he is very dumb and truly loves you.”

“How can you say that when I’m so vulnerable?”

“I-I don’t know. I say what I feel. “

“No! You take advantage of us!” Mikasa bares her metaphorical teeth like any wounded animal. She hits everyone where it hurts when they don’t share her opinion. “You dare to project your unfulfilled love affair on two high schoolers . Miss Rodin, I don’t know what happened to you because you refuse to tell us, but just because someone left you doesn’t mean _I_ should stay with Eren. The rational side left in me clearly sees the road ahead.“

“If you know the right answer already, why did you call?” The woman asks.

Mikasa pauses. She really wishes she was on the beach with Miss Rodin, smoking and gazing at the angry sea, instead of mourning in her small childish room.

“I called because Eren and I have been one and the same for too long.

When I ripped myself apart from him, it hurt, of course, but I expected it to pass.

It didn’t. It’s been weeks, and the pain is still pulsing in the imaginary spot we were connected. Sure, I’ve tried patching it up, with Annie and all that, and still the wound just won’t close. It keeps bleeding and smells like an early death. So here I am. Laying on the operating room, waiting for the doctor to come and sew the stiches.”

The woman on the other end lets out a loud, admirable whistle.

“Damn, girl, when is this getting turned into your next poem?”

Mikasa rubs her head in embarrassment as she gets caught right in the act.

“I’m working on it but it’s really hard to make everything rhyme! Whatever…forget I asked. You love Eren more anyway and keep his side”

“How can you say that?!” The woman exclaims, mimicking the tone Mikasa used on her earlier. “I equally care about your stupid asses! If you feel I give Eren more attention, it’s because he has yet to wake up and find himself, while you…you already know who you are. However different you two might be, I love you all the same.”

“ All the time or only when I remind you of your ex?”

“Mikasa...” Miss Rodin scolds her. “when did you become so cruel?”

“Since I’ve seen how Eren is perfectly fine without me supporting him. Nobody needs me, Miss Rodin.”

The woman rolls her eyes and groans desperately. As much as she loves the spirit of teenagers, they can be such self-centered, angsty pain in the asses.

“Things won’t work out between us, Mr. Ackerman, I feel it.” The boy softly cries and bangs his head on the table.

“Oh my god! what if they do, you brat? Are you just going to toss it all into the gutter because you have a ‘feeling’!? Get in there and find your own answers!”

Levi flicks Eren’s forehead, the boy jumping in pain. He rubs his sore spot while Mr. Ackerman is making assumptions on how long his tantrum is going to last.

“I don’t know Mr. Socrates, Mi- I mean, this girl, is all I want from afar. She is wild, strong, calculated, I’m afraid to ruin this perfect image projected on her, no matter how selfish this may sound. I have relied on this illusion half my life to keep me from going insane.”

Back at their house, his supporting pillar is currently being scolded.

“Mikasa, I will spell things out for you, since ‘rational’ is apparently the new sexy. Eren is not as perfect as you depict him.” Miss Rodin starts. Unbeknownst to her, or anyone for that matter, far away from the polluted beach and closed music clubs, someone just as imperfect completes her sentences in a deserted classroom.

“…and neither are you” Levi mutters, resisting the urge to light up a cigarette. The words overlap perfectly, perhaps by the fault of an ironic fate.

“The problem is…” the woman goes.

“…whether or not…” the man follows.

_“You’re perfect **for each other.”**_

The four of them take their time to process the situation. Even though everything remains in their natural state, they all have this strange feeling something has happened, something to disrupt the reality, yet they can’t put their finger on it. Mikasa is the first to hang up and end the conversation with a grateful ‘thank you’.

“My pleasure. Call me anytime, sweetie.” Miss Rodin smiles in her fragile club.

Eren gets up from his seat and grabs his backpack. Just when he is about to leave, he spots something on the corner of his teacher’s desk. It’s a copy of Cehov’s works, encased in red leather covers.

“ Mr. Socrates, I think you’re my second favorite adult!”

Mr. Ackerman puts his glasses back on and resumes his work. He doesn’t bother to ask who the first one is.

“Go see a therapist, brat.”

Eren snickers and heads out with determined steps. Even though he likes his teacher’s unusual way of talking, his advices are too metaphorical for his tastes. Right now, the boy needs something more practical. And if you’re looking for practical, there is one person who is the textbook definition of that: his name’s Armin.

A little surprise visit at his dorm won’t kill him. But even Eren knows it’s rude to show up empty-handed.

“Mr. Ackerman!” the boy spins suddenly. “ Do you know where an almost legal person can buy vodka?”

Levi frowns and looks at him as if he’s grown another head.

“Get out.”

“But…”

“Out.” The man shoos him away. He is, as the saying goes, too old for this shit.

Miles away, the woman is taking a smoke from her cigarette holder. It’s late September, _This place_ has become unfriendly and bland, like a highschool sweetheart at the 10 year reunion: modest and devoid of anything you’ve once loved. The sea is just salt water now, music clubs are merely wood structures and straw rooftops, the sunrise is nothing more than the start of another day in hell.

The beach, once full of sun, beautiful music and people dancing on the streets, is now deserted and cold like the artic. The party’s done, the curtain has fallen, and now she has to get up and clean up the mess the guests left behind. She really hates winters.

The woman will start with her own home. Luckly, one of her ‘informal’ students has put up together a set of strings, ropes and pulleys to make the work easier. Now, with the simple twist of the handle, the infamous ‘Rodin’s’ sign perched on the top descends to the ground. This lonely wolf has to drag it and store it until the next summer rolls around. The woman keeps it under lock and key, and this is the part that she dislikes the most.

For she has to take off her ‘Miss Rodin’ armor and become only Rhea once more.

Act Three, the next day

“All men must die, yes, but we are no men!” Someone booms in the large throne room, the voice echoing. “We are starved beasts! “ A royal figure adds dramatically, his posture tall and proud, dominating the whole atmosphere.

The time has come for the prince to go to war. Enemies have surrounded the whole citadel, so now he and his loyal subjects are getting ready to head into the battle outnumbered, hungry and with rusty weapons.

Even though death is knocking on their door, the prince could not give up. Even if he is the last one standing, he will still fight until his last breath. And so will the others, that is their nature, for he is not ruling over a nation of cowards! His eyes soften. The prince couldn’t have asked for better companions.

“Yes brothers, we might die, we might never return” The person turns around to face his comrades, fisting his long, crimson cloak. He looks at each of them, thinking about the great times they had together and the battles they’ve won. And how the days of his kingdom are numbered.

“But what if we might live!? A great life awaits us, if only we dare to fight the usurpers!” And so he takes the sword of out his sheath, points it towards the sky and walks to the roaring crowd that awaits him.

“We have endured hunger, humiliations, years of slavery! Well, I say no more! Our time has finally come! Follow me into the battle, and whatever end we meet, we shall make history tonight!” He exclaims with a proud yell, as his tone rises in power.

“Cut! I said cut!” Mikasa speaks thorough her megaphone and Armin turns off the spotlight on Eren. Everyone groans in frustrations, they are so not in the mood to redo the scene. The theater room is cold, damp and Eren throws his prop sword aside and tears out his synthetic cape in anger. His glass is full to the brim, his patience, already small, long overdue. Green eyes that hold nothing but fiery dread, land on the imbecile girl in the front row.

Meanwhile, Connie and Sasha cross their arms and grunted. Jean sits down on the stage and loosens up the buttons of his costume.

“What is wrong with you?! We had rehearsed this scene for the 10th time already ! We are tired and dehydrated! ” Eren yells.

“What is wrong with me?” Mikasa says into the device and crosses her legs. “What is wrong with you? I have seen better acting when the middle-schoolers were rehearsing earlier.”

“At least I am actually acting, and not lying around in the audience, throwing orders left and right!

I should have kicked you out of the band the moment you decided to give up your role in the play! Now we not only have a lack of female lead, we also got a pretentious manager that doesn’t even know what she’s doing stuck on our heads!” The girl has never experienced his anger directed at her, so it fuels even more her uncertainty. She doesn’t let it show, though. The real battle, like the one in the play, ceases as soon as one of them shows weakness.

Mikasa is exasperated. And Eren’s behavior isn’t the only reason. This whole theater fiasco has been way out of her league from the start. Her acting is, at the very best, very mediocre, not fake per se, but she never manages to sell the desired image to the audience, like Eren does. He is the star of the show, knows how to walk, when to pause, how to command or beg without even opening his mouth. His roles are studied, his performances hypnotizing to everyone.

“Everyone, take a break, we will be back in five.” Eren says and everyone sighs in relief.

Sasha plopps down beside Jean. She takes some clean newspapers and spreads it in the middle of the stage. Then,from a brown bag came out some boiled whole potatoes, diced beef and green onion. She grabbs a bread loaf and a knife and starts to cut generous slices. Jean is currently thinking what type of deranged psycho carries a whole bread and a knife around. When all is done, the girl announces proudly:

“the Feast is ready. Dig in, my starved beasts!” She says with such vigor, as if she still is in the role of the prestigious knight. Everyone comes up near her and sits down in a circle, the hardwood floor digging into their asses.

“You too Armin, leave those machines and come grab a bite!” Sasha yells with her mouth full and Armin pops out from behind the stage and joins the party. They all are eating in silence, enjoying the nice taste of their simple meal.

All of a sudden, someone very short wrestles with the massive door of the festivities hall. The band ceases to eat and fix their eyes on the newcomer. With a few grunts and huffs, the small figure manages to get inside. A happy Historia runs down the stairs that lead to the stage. Eren smirks to himself, thinking the real show is about to begin. If Historia does her part and he doesn’t miserably fail, there is no way their plan won’t work. She is a sight to behold in her baby blue flower dress, white straw hat and massive green plastic earrings. That girl takes great care of herself, no matter where she goes to, always polished and wearing lipgloss.

‘Maybe to compensate the fact that she’s a quite the ditz’ Mikasa thinks.

“Hello hello! Sorry I’m so late, I came as quickly as I could.”Historia greets everyone and waves her manicured hand.

“Hey there girl, not that we mind, but what are you doing here?” Jean asks while biting into a makeshift sandwich. Before she can answer, Eren rises to his feet and wipes his mouth in a crude way. He urges the blonde girl to come up on the stage and Historia follows.

“ Forgot to tell you two very important things. Firstly, due to my help and great efforts, you should build me a statue. There are far too many empty pedestals in Shiganshina anyway.

Secondly, this girl...” And He throws his arm around Historia’s tiny shoulders, squishing her into his side “which I want to ear due to her sweetness” Eren then presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “has agreed to replace Mikasa in our play. I present you our new female lead.! Whatcha sayin’ my fellow artists?” The boy speaks with grandeur, a hand on his hip.

“I say welcome to the team, blondie!” Connie’s eyes light up as he puts his bread down, leg bent at the knee and his arm resting on top of it. Sasha pinches his thigh and her boyfriend jumps in pain.

“No way we accept her just like that!” Mikasa interjects. “She has to give an audition first!” She disapproves, a frown perched on her pale features. The green-eyed boy scoffs.

“Well, it’s not really like we have a choice now is it? We can’t perform without the damsel in distress. And I think goldilocks here has the looks for the part, don’t you agree?” Eren bites back at her.

“Cool it off, you two!” Armin interjects in a classical fit of letting steam out. “ We are in no state to make a decision right now. The whole team is angry, sore and sweaty. I don’t know about you, but I want to go home.”

“Me too!” Connie yells.

“Me three!” Sasha joins and is already packing up the leftovers.

“Wait! You can’t do that! Historia has come all this way and didn’t even get to see us acting!” Eren pats the head of the short girl. She pouts and nods in agreement.

“I have so much to learn from you guys! The sooner I start, the better!” Historia cries in false admiration. The boy thinks even for a set-up plan, she’s quite the actress. Perhaps he should seriously consider letting her join the drama club.

“ Ugh, I’m sorry blondie, looks like your timing is just off. But there is always a day tomorrow.” Eren grips her shoulder, reassuringly. “I mean, Armin’s right. We’re on the verge of collapsing because of one psycho who shall not be named!” And he pierces Mikasa with his gaze. She looks to the side, intimidated.

“Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then…” the cute girl lowers her gaze. The plan is working perfectly.

“Yeah. Try to actually show up on time.” One of the boys says as he stretches. Connie wraps his arm around Sasha.

“Alright then! Let’s wrap up, guys. We’re done for the day!” Eren claps his hands as everyone except Mikasa sighs in relief.

“About damn time!” Jean mutters and gets up. Armin is shutting down the giant machinery, while the goofy couple has sneaked out without even a ‘goodbye’.

“See you tomorrow, Eren!” Historia says and leans in to peck his cheek out of the blue. An affectionate friendly gesture, considering the fact that goldilocks is far more promiscuous to the boys she really likes, but Mikasa’s blood is boiling all the same, her fist shut tight so as not to punch the girl in the face.

‘Who does this whore think she is, touching him like that?’ the demon inside her screams before her rational side tells her she’s reaping exactly what she sowed.

The rest of the team exchanges their goodbyes and slip out of the dark, damp rehearsal room. Armin is first to leave, followed by Jean and Historia. Eren is making his way to the exit, when all of a sudden, Mikasa crosses her arms.

“Eren, I’d like to have a word with you.” He pauses and turns around, smiling to himself. ‘Right into our trap.’ He thinks. Before she closes the door, blondie turns her head to the boy, fixing his gaze.

‘You have one shot, don’t blow it up’ she tries to say .

He nods, as if somehow understanding her.

When the door is shut tight and there is only the two of them left , Eren prepares himself for the real show to start.

Foreplay’s over, it’s time for the real deal.

“What was that all about?” Mikasa asks, her tone dead serious and flat.

“You’ll have to be more explicit. I simply don’t know what you’re talking about.” He mocks her with a bratty smirk, turning his head to the side.

“For start, how about the fact you replaced me with the school slut.”

“Ouch. I thought you girls should be more supportive with each other. Jealous much?”

The girl looked away from him, an embarrassed blush creeping on her face.

“As if. I don’t care about your stupid play anymore.”  
“ This is not only about the play Mika…” He affirms, sure of Historia’s plan.

“It is!” She objects. “ I wanted to leave the drama club for good, but all the other extracurricular are full to the brim.”  
  
“Okay…then if you don’t give two shits about the play why are you concerned with how it turns out?” Eren asks.

‘Because it’s important to you.’ She wants to say.

“Because if things turn out bad it will affect my overall grade.” She replies instead and he believes her lies.

“Don’t worry, it won’t. You’re working with a pro.” Eren proudly gestures to himself. Mikasa lets out in an ironic laughter.

“HA.Ha.Ha.Pardon me? Where is this pro you’re talking about? Or are you talking about Armin? ‘cause right now, all I’m seeing is a circus horse who considers himself so hot that he can distract the audience from his terrible performances.” She doesn’t like playing dirty, but in love and war…

The girl prepares a blow which will hit him where it hurts.

“At least Sue Lyon has some talent.” She smirks and waits for his outburst. It never comes.

“How about a little game then? “ The boy says, all sly as if all this time he has been waiting for the right moment to strike. Shit, she did not expect that. It definitely smells like trouble and her instincts tell her to run. She has known him long enough to know he’s most dangerous when calm.

“I’ll prove it to you that I’m capable of so much more than distracting the audience with my good looks.“ Eren kneels down to her level, his deep jade eyes penetrating her soul. She feels like she is staring straight into his abyss, and it terrifies the shit out of her of the things he’s capable of.

Slowly but surely, Eren slips into the role he knows best. The one which grasps his true nature, for it has been running through his veins ever since he was born: The hunter.

“I’ll interpret a different character that I’m not used to, right here, right now. If I deliver poorly, you win. I’ll admit that I’m just a circus performer.”

“and I won’t allow Historia to join our band” he adds, luring her in more into his trap.

“and if I lose?” Mikasa asks half-heartily.

“ Then..” His voice is only but a whisper, so close to her face they are almost touching foreheads. “you forgive me.” His gaze drops down to her deep red painted lips and stay there. She gets what he’s hinting at.

“I’m not playing your stupid games anymore.” Mikasa frowns, backing away from him on her knees, like the prey does when it’s already too late.

“Come on, I’ll even let you choose…” He says, rising to feet, as he strolls towards her, hands in his pockets, a cruel smirk adorning his features. 

“I still won’t do it.” She complains. Eren circles her kneeling form, indulging in her, tempting as the snake from Eden.

“Why is that, Mikasa? Oh I know…” he went around her once, twice, thrice and halted. “It’s because you’re a scaredy cat and you only play the games you are sure to win at. Poor little kitten…” He whines at her with a demeaning voice.

She swallows down her sorrow, hating how Eren knows her in the weakest, most vile and prideful form, and he still chooses to humiliate her in the way that hurts the most.

“Fine, you goof. Whatever. I’ll play.” It’s not like she has a choice anyway. Eren has a way with people that makes it hard for them to refuse him. 

“I knew you couldn’t resist me. What does the lady desire then?” Again he goes with his teasing, giving her the impression she has some control over the situation.

“A depressed Russian woman. How about that?” And so the dice have been thrown.

“Your wish is my command.” He bows like a servant in front of her. Little does she know, he had prepared beforehand for every possible answer.

Then all of the sudden, he jumps behind, grabbed the girl by the armpits and, despite the flow of protests, dragged her butt across the scene, until she sat in the center. It is known what great care he takes of his audience.

“I have one condition though.” The boy adds, signaling trouble’s about to start. Did she seriously think he’ll go easy on her? Oh boy, she’s in for a ride.

“Hurry up then, we don’t have all evening.” Mikasa speaks . At which Eren, who still stands behind her, curls his long, slender fingers around her scarf.

The same precious crimson scarf she has been constantly wearing ever since he has wrapped it around her neck all those years ago.

Just like a caress, one voice inside her head says softly.

Just like a leash, another one screams.

She sits there like a statue, frozen, and allows him to pull her scarf up and up, trembling just barely against the cloth and the fingers she feels through it, until he finally drapes it across her eyes.

Darkness engulfs her as Eren secures it with a knot behind her head. He leans over and hisses into her ear.

“Consider this a safety measure against my so called eye-pleasing-acting.” And his voice, vain and captivating on its own , arouses a heavy sorrow deep in her loins, the coils of her own longing securing her in place.

Eren lets her go and runs to the music panel behind the curtain, while She sits there, in the empty abandoned theatre, nervous and blindfolded, completely at his mercy.

In an instant, the heavy silence of the establishment is replaced with ethereal music.

The melancholic yet alert tune clashes against the walls, notes filling perfectly the gaps between stale molecules of air.

Rachmaninoff’s famous Italian Polka is playing.

She hears Eren’s footsteps coming towards her, and the girl clings to the reassuring sound that he did not abandon her.

He halts right in front of her, without a word.

Mikasa is preparing for the blow, but for a while, he delivers none.

They remain speechless, devouring each other. Only the music can be heard between them.

Until he begins.

Eren takes a deep breath and cries not too loud, not too forced. Just an ashamed, pitiful sob, that betrays a deep sense of self torture.

“My dearest Sonia, if you only knew,

how utterly miserable I am,

what a cruel nightmare my life has been...”

‘Of course he chooses Sonya’s final monologue from Cehov’s Uncle Vanya’ the girl thinks and lets out a superior huff.

But when His fingers grasp her chin and force her slowly up to his level, daring to breathe felt rude to Mikasa.

“What can you do?” his voice went down, deep like it belonged to a demon in pain.” We have to live. And we will , uncle Vanya.

We shall live a long, long procession of days and bottomless nights,

we shall patiently bear the trials that fate imposes on us.

We will slave away for others, both now and when we will be old, without knowing what rest is.” And he swung her chin side to side, tilting her head in the rhythm of the lines.

“And when our time will come, we shall perish humbly, without patching up our deaths” He speaks very low , merciful. Eren takes a long pause, as his hands press firmly on her waist, digging into the flesh. She gasps.

“But there, on the other side, ahh my dear…” He hisses with fury,

“ we shall tell the others of our sufferings, “ Anger,

“how much we have wept, “ Rebellion,

“how much unhappiness we had to face while living.” the feeling of injustice.

“ And god will take pity on us. “ the boy says, jumping from rage to a gentle madness.

“And both you and I, dear, shall see another life, beautiful and serene,” he grows more and more hopeful, his voice cracking with each letter from the sheer pleasure of his illusion.

“we shall rejoice and look back upon our sorrows with tenderness and a smile, and we will rest.” Eren then secures his arms around her middle and hoists her up, his head at the same level with her navel.

“I believe it “ and he strolls with her across the stage, with long, diagonal steps and sharp turns.

“I have faith in it” Almost like he’s waltzing her,

“I have faith in it with my whole heart” While she feels like she’s flying.

He carries her further around, basking her in his impossible dream.

“We shall rest” And his smile is audible. Eren then slowly lets her down, putting her on her feet. He gets behind her, his chest touching her back as much as possible.

Although she can’t see, Mikasa is sure they are facing the imaginary audience. The boy wraps his arms tightly around her middle and rests his head into the crook of her neck.

“We shall rest, do you hear me?” He mutters into her ear.

“I can almost see it…when this is over,”

“We shall hear” Nimble fingers pull down her scarf covering her eyes, “…the angels singing”

“We shall see the world beyond shining like a jewel.” He couldn’t hold back a genuine laughter.

“We shall see all evil and all our pain melt away in the great compassion that will swallow the entire world.”

Instead of old dilapidated chairs, eaten by moths and permanently stained with various bodily fluids, Mikasa has a clear view of what he’s describing: the world beyond, where people can love whomever they please, with its enormous stores always packed, the concept of private property and where the sun’s always shining.

“And our life will be peaceful. It will be sweet and tender… like your caress.” And he kneels on the floor at first, then drags her down too, and places her body across his lap.

“I have faith in it. Yes, I do”

And Eren molded his anguished self to perfection.

“Oh, Uncle Vanya” He wails in pain.

“My poor, poor Uncle Vanya, you are crying!” And his palms cup her face, thumbs wiping away imaginary tears on her cheeks. If only Mikasa had any left…

“I know…”

“I’m aware that you’ve never known true happiness all your life, but wait, Uncle Vanya, wait only for a while!” He brings their faces closer and closer until he can feel her breath on his lips. 

“We too deserve it. “ And although his acting has been impeccable, the shaking hands betray him.

“We too shall be set free.” He finishes the monologue, with each word his lips brushing lightly against hers.

He wants so badly to scream how sorry he is, but he cannot trust his voice to say the right things any longer. Eren’s exhausted, has ran out of clever words after all those sleepless nights.

Besides, no epithet can compare to how good it feels to finally hold her again.

So he resorts to the only way of asking for forgiveness he knows.

That is clashing his mouth against hers.

He’s not gentle, he could not have been. After so many fights, so many arguments, Eren is famished for her. Wants so badly to savor everything about Mikasa.

Top to bottom. Every nook and cranny.

Her lips are cold, yet inviting, and move against his with equal desire. They are smearing her lipstick all over their faces as their tongues explore again, brushing and licking. First, she invites herself in, then succumbs to his dominance.

And there is nothing but the piano sounds around them.

Eren pushes her back and crawls on top of her. His hands are roaming all over, on her calves, gripping her hips, caressing her collarbones. She has forgotten how good his touch feels. It melts away all her cold and ice angst into a pitiful puddle of yearning.

Of course he has won the game, of course Mikasa forgives him, there was no other way after all. In that devastated room, with hard wood digging into her back and his mouth on hers, eating each other whole, she comes to her own conclusions:

There was no way for her to enjoy life other than by his side.

In the background, the music goes on long after the acting stopped, as if announcing the happy ending.

And if the price is all those moments of misery and uncertainty, she will gladly pay it tenfold. However disturbingly that might sound.

Because only with Eren by her side she knows both how to be aggressive and kind.

Both the creator and the creation.

The two sides of the same coin.

It is as if their own existence is conditioned by the other’s. She likes it.

Because you cannot achieve completion just by being strong.

And, after many days and dozens of drafts tossed into the trash bin, the last verse, the one she has been working on forever, the one she has been thinking about in class, at practice or with friends, echoes inside her mind and her heart . By some miracle or simply by the natural order of things, her poem finally completes itself:

_If you were to disappear_

_From my weeping and my laughter…_

_I’d find you within, my dear_

_Build you of myself thereafter._

As they continue their passionate kiss in licks and laps, his right hand goes up her thigh, higher and higher, sneaking under her skirt until Eren’s fingers brush around where she wants him the most.

She lets out a strangled moan into his mouth as he starts to give her exactly what she likes. Whether it’s rough, or gentle, slow or desperate, Eren knows it better than she does.

And as the last notes of the symphony fade away, they begin to compose one of their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to make things subtle enough but I guess you are pretty confused right now. Do not fret, for I will clarify in simple words:  
> Act two happens before chapter 8 and act three a day after it. SO! Eren goes to Levi, is not satisfied with the results, visits Armin, they have that whole fiasco with the Breakfast Club, then makes that deal with Historia. Next day, they act their plan out and you saw how things turned out!  
> Also, yeah, that is the real final monologue from uncle Vanya, but it's a bit adapted, you might say. I tried to make it pretty clear, but in case there is still confusion, eren's not talking about in the literal sense about a life after death. It's a metaphor for their regime and the free life beyond Paradis! Hope everything is crystal now!!!!
> 
> If there are still confusions, please address them in the comment section~  
> Hope you like a longer chapter than usual! Remember there is nothing as fulfilling as waking up to review, subscription or fav notifications!  
> IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT!  
> I’m going on hiatus for a while! This is why I decided to bless you with a longer chapter! Before you are all sad, don’t worry, I’m not giving up on this fic. But exams are coming so education and career come first! I have to study, but be sure, as soon as exams are over, I will write again.  
> Until then, take care of your asses.  
> Also yeah, I took inspiration from Good will hunting and the edge of seventeen for this chapter. Fitting right?


	12. Levi: Steppenwolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise bitch, thought you've seen the last of me.

Dear Rhea,

My fate,

My curse,

What have you been up to?

How are you feeling?

Are you well?

I know what you said back then when I left, not to write and not to call you, but I’m entertaining myself still. Please allow me some guilty pleasure, it’s not like I’m going to send this letter anyway. Why should I do it? To reveal your location to the Military Police when they check the content of this letter and cause even more trouble for Erwin? He’s got enough on his hands as it is...

Besides, you broke the rules first.

You called me, a while ago, remember?. You didn’t say a thing, but I’m certain about it like I’m certain that I love you still.

Naughty brat, why did you do it?

You only caused me sorrow. What you fail to realize, dear, is the more time I spend away from you, the easier it is for me to...exist. I can’t call it living. But I get by, somehow. I listen to Erwin’s commands, teach some children, grade papers and you reside in my head peacefully.

I haven’t forgotten anything, if that’s what you’re fearing. I remember what we did, what we said to each other. Each piece of ‘you and me’ has a dedicated spot inside my brain:

Every kiss,

Every grab,

Every touch,

The sound of your voice,

The smell of your neck,

Or how wonderful your cunt tastes.

I let those memories live rent-free in my head, even if they constantly torment me like any chronic pain does. They give me a certainty that you once loved me. And that’s it. You. Once. Loved. Me. Past tense. Past. You’re in the past. I’m in the present and day by day that thought becomes more bearable.

But then you call and remind me that you’re out there, breathing, living, without me, and it’s not that we’re doomed not to be together…

We’re forced to. And it sucks big time.

But you did it. Congratulations, baby. You did something to me that day. I started writing again, something else beside the political manifestos Erwin wants me to write for the Survey Corps. Something good.

At the moment I barely leave the typing machine alone because I found out, I have important things to write about.

I’m not going to pretend they’re not about you. They are.

Everything that I have worth telling to this world is about you one way or another.

How life was with _you._ How life is without _you._ How much purpose _you_ gave me. How much _you_ loved me. How I dared to live by _your_ side. How I’m slowly killing myself now because _you_ told me to.

Speaking of...

Do you still tilt your head when someone kisses your neck? Does your mouth taste like the sea, as it did the last time I kissed you? I need to make sure some things are in order.

There are a thousand things I ~~want~~ need to ask you, yet all those questions come out superficial, edgy, forced in a way, like I’m young, clumsy and pretending to be something I’m not.

The only difference is that I’m not young anymore. I’m a month away from my thirties.

What a bastard you chose to fall in love with all those summers ago. It has never been easy for you either. I haven’t been the most tentative boyfriend, you know me, I can go on and on when I’m writing, but in real life, I’m a man of few words. Most of which are not very kind.

And you’ve had your own share of my small, cruel talks. They play in my head on repeat all the time.

Erwin lectures me that having regrets is foolish, that it’s better to put your trust in the road ahead than dwell on how things might turn out. And because I can’t fight both the Titans and their enemy at the same time, I shove all the regrets deep down and pretend they don’t exist, that I don’t have any.

But eventually they come out one way or another.

I want to punch myself in the face for some things I’ve said to you. You didn’t deserve neither my silence nor my bites. If I knew our days were numbered, Rhea, I would’ve never shut up about how amazing you are, about how grateful I am that you’ve barged your way into my life like a hot blizzard of kindness.

Do you remember when you came to my room the following day after we met? I acted like such an immature bitch and I’m sorry for it.

There, I’ve said it. I regret it and Erwin can kiss my ass.

But in my defense, I was very hangover.

~10 years ago, in a better place~

By some unknown will of gods I managed to find my way back from the beach that morning. I didn’t remember how I got to my room, but I had a vague memory of not walking straight and holding onto fences for dear life.

I sighed and turned my body to the other side. The springs creaked and a sedated sleep almost claimed me again.

Trust the guy that had trouble sleeping, the best naps always happened during midday. The warmth of the room, the outside noise of people working while I got to rest, the weight of the blankets, I wouldn’t trade it even for a night at Hilton.

Not that I knew what a night at Hilton was supposed to be like. I’d heard some rumors here and there, like everybody else, about a big chain of luxury hotels in the West where Moet and Dom Perignon are only a room service away. It wasn’t like Paradis would benefit from such opulence anytime soon.

„ fuckin’ foreign investors!” the Government would exclaim. “They want to make money on our land and then take the profits back to their country and spend it on depravation and cocaine! We will never allow our hard-working citizens to be downgraded by exploiters! Our flourishing country has the resources to do better than those pigs anyway.”

So no Dom Perignon for us.

But then again, even if I had the money to afford it, I wouldn’t be spending it on some fancy ass hotel shit.

I’d rather buy some German books for my collection. Rilke must’ve been feeling kinda lonely on the shelf. I’d heard they brought some stolen Herman Hesse at _The Fool,_ it was worth checking out.

Or maybe I could buy another vinyl. I really wanted to listen to something else other than Simon and Garfunkel.

But then again, a brand new typewriter sounded divine. The current one I had was thrifted and missed two letters. Not that I deserved it. Brand new typewriters were meant for people who could actually write something original, had some talent or read bookshelf after bookshelf until their influenced opinion was something entirely fresh and different from everything before, whereas I was just an imposter with an above average vocabulary.

Don’t believe me? Let’s prove a point then.

I rolled onto my back and extended my arm over the bed. On the floor lied scattered papers on various subjects, which had been written in the dampness of my college dorm room over the last year. They ended up all over the place when I emptied my bag in a hurry last night.

Let’s see… I grabbed one at random and brought it closer for reading. But lo and behold, opening my eyes was for sure a great mistake. A distasteful groan erupted from my throat as I shut them down the next second. Why was everything so fucking bright?

Oh, yes, and the pain. How could I forget the pain? Suave and unforgiving, this sensation that had shaped mankind for millenias was now alive and pounding in my head. Flashbacks from last night where I was downing shot after shot resurfaced.

Congratulations, dumb fuck, you’ve poisoned yourself on rakija.

The next time I tried to look over the paper, my eyes slowly adjusted and the letters became clear. Following row after row, my attempts at writing were so pitiful, I swore never to let another human being see them.

I found a fragment that was copied word for word from Marcus Aurelius ‘Meditations’.

Oh, there’s another one, where I rearranged the words but even a high schooler could tell the idea was stolen from John Locke.

I crumpled the sheet and threw it in the trash bin across the room, obviously missing. There was no other fate for what I wrote anyway.

 _You’ll never make it as a writer._ I knew Farlan was only teasing when he said those words last summer, but still a little mean voice in the back of my head never ceased to shut up about it. 

Maybe he had a point, after all great writers had something to show to the world: their never-seen-before writing style, or maybe versatility, some had unbounded imagination whereas others were able to write what you’d been wanting to say your whole life but didn’t have the words to. They didn’t waste ink and try to cover up their lack of imagination with big, fancy words. Faulkner, Thomas Mann, Sartre, all those people used to lock themselves up for days, no touch with the real world, their mind self-sufficient, their struggle bearable, and works that changed the world were created.

On the other end of the spectrum, there were the so-called authors that lead such interesting lives that their masterpiece was their own biography. Those metaphysical prophets didn’t sit well with me. I spend countless evenings watching from afar, in silence, especially _here_ , people who were so busy living that they didn’t have to write down anything. With a wisdom just as broad and as open as their afore mentioned brothers, plenty of individuals knew how to talk, what to say in the right context, their dialogue so wonderfully woven, a complex series of theories, metaphors and life lessons I was certain they never had a brain fart once in their lives.

And then there was the existence of your favorite short, gloomy bastard, unfolding right in the middle. Leaning in no direction, neither painstakingly skillful on paper nor extroverted enough to be the center of attention in person, I was living on the thin edge between real and hypothetical, with no hope to grab anyone’s interest.

What did I have to offer to my audience anyway? Good organization, perfect grammar and some logic tying things up together, or in other words, nothing, or worse, the predictable. Either I was in constant state of self-hatred for my idiocy or, once in a while, a brand new, interesting thought or a never seen before idea popped up in my head, only to find out after some research there were about 30 other people who had written about that before me, some of which had won the Nobel prize for it. With a groan and a fist pulling on my hair to numb the pain, I picked up another paper from the floor, roaming over it.

A quote from Huxley here, a concept from John Rawls there, and all over the place there was no sign of originality. As expected. Nothing was ever new under the sun and there was nothing left to talk about.

Scoffing loudly, like a merciful god, I sentenced another sheet to death like its predecessors. Now they could lay down together forever, happy ever after, right where they belonged. In the trash. What a beautiful love story.

Now where did I put that goddamn water? I craved that shit more than a lily left in the desert.

A loud banging against the glass of my door made me want to set myself on fire.

“Mister philosopher!” Rose, the owner of this summer house, called from the other side like she was a horseman of the apocalypse who had come for my soul. I pushed the covers over my head, shielding like an animal in pain from the world outside, wishing the noise would drown and this lady would go back to day drinking and watering her daffodils or whatever she did in her spare time.

“Mister philosopher!!!!!” But her howling went on and on, rough, grotesque and more insistent each time. I made a mental note to try some occult ritual later in the night and summon a demon. Maybe he’ll take pity of me and agree to give me permanent silence in exchange for my soul.

“What?” I grumbled from beneath the sheets, not daring to open my eyes. Light would probably kill me yet again.

“Someone’s looking for you! Says it’s urgent!” The old, fat hag announced me, bothered and confused.

“Who is it? If it’s Doth Pixis, tell him I’ve died!” I shouted from my cocoon of warm blankets.

“ No, no. She says she’s a good omen.” Rose yelled back.

I did not sign up for this shit. Rolling out of bed seemed such a chore, my eyes protested and begged for some rest, but on the other hand, I managed to pick up my jeans on the first try from a completely cluttered floor, and if that wasn’t a sign, I didn’t knew what was.

Shoving down one leg, then the other, I put on my pants before yelling back to the landlady:

“Well then, tell her to come in if she’s such good omen!”

But I barely finished pulling up the zipper when the door slammed open and someone floated inside. Panting and bend over from exhaustion, the girl from last night popped into my life once more, uninvited, crossing my threshold because of the inertia from her roller skates. One of my eyebrows rose up and I crossed my arms out of habit. Who in their fucking right mind skated across a beach resort in the middle of July? She wasn’t even wearing a helmet, that irresponsible naïve bitch. I bet she was one sunray away form a heatstroke.

“Do you have any idea how hard was it to find you? “She whined, very much annoyed. “I looked all over the place for you and the worst part is that I couldn’t even remember your name so I had to go all around the place asking if they’ve seen a pissed off man clad in black from head to toe!”

When she was done scolding me as if it were my fault she didn’t ask where I stayed, this girl took a deep breath and waltzed all over the papers scattered on the floor, crinkling some and ripping others apart, the wheels of her skates pulling bits and pieces for my work. I almost chuckled, as the executioner butchered one sheet after the other. And I had no problem with it. I meant, what greater reminder that you ain’t shit than a bad dressed sweaty girl walking all over your papers?

She put one arm forward and pressed it on my exposed torso, right on my sternum, to stop herself from clashing into me. The touch of her hot, wet palm and the chaperoning rings against my cold skin made me way more uncomfortable that it should have been. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t some kind of shy virgin, but memories from last night came to surface and they got me all kinds of embarrassed.

I remembered her sweet tantalizing eyes charming me,

Her voice almost curing all my sorrows,

Some songs with complicated words making me think life was worth living,

And how I saw her dancing on the table, as if she were some other worldly being...

“What would you play in the opening credits of the greatest love story ever told?” I said to her this morning, the words pounding in my head, in synch with the hangover.

What the hell was wrong with me? Who was this cringey, dreamy lost soul? I looked down at Rhea, at her glistening skin, beige short skirt, (who in their right mind wore a tight mini skirt when roller skating?) deep blue liner running down her cheeks because of the heat, and wondered how bad she held back a laugh when hearing those embarrassing lines.

A shameful shiver crawled up my spine. Last night I put on those tiny shoulders the weight of some issues I should’ve dealt with eons ago, instead of pretending some girl with no respect for boundaries would, at some point, pop up and magically fix all the open wounds.

“You really suck at walking on roller skates.” I said, encircling her wrist with my hand and pulling it away from my chest. “What are you doing here, Rhea?”

Her whole face switched from a determined pout to a slight blush.

“Oh, you remember my name. That’s embarrassing, seeing as I forgot yours.” She muttered, eyes on the floor while one hand rubbed at that mess of a hair, tangled up from the wind.

“Whatever. It’s Levi. You didn’t answer my question.” And the words came out cold and bothered, but that was just to cover some old classic shame. I constructed, in my mind, paragraph after paragraph about her and she couldn’t even remember my name. What a pitiful situation…

“So I was over at that diner on the main street when I saw those Garrison pigs distributing the latest issue of the Survey Corps magazine. I grabbed one and there was this one article published that got me all sorts of confused.” Rhea jumped straight to the subject. “I must’ve read it five times or more yet I can’t figure out what it’s trying to say…and I don’t like it. So there I was sitting, existential dilemma and all, when I thought ‘do you know who wouldn’t have the slightest problem with the meaning of this article? Mr. Philosopher from last night.’ So I picked up my things and went on my way to find my smart cute stranger. And now here I am.” She said in one breath, not giving me the slightest chance to interrupt.

Wait a second…

…

Did this _mushroom_ just had the audacity to call me ‘cute’?

Hell no. That was the cue for her to go.

“Sorry to disappoint, but you got some things wrong, girlie. Contrary to what you may think, I am not, in fact, the local know-it-all at your personal service. Seek yourself out and go look for your Garrison slaves, I’ve got my own problems to take care of, don’t have time for your wannabe-smartass tantrums.”

See? I was not cute. I was an asshole who wanted to be left alone to broil in self-pity.

“I thought you might say this!” She replied with inadequate smirk, and took off her shoulders a small baby blue fake leather backpack. “ That’s why I brought you the biggest, greasiest sandwich complete with fries and some ayran. Perfect for a hangover. Now you can’t say no to that.”

“How did you know I had a hangover?”

“Please, who wouldn’t after _that_ amount of alcohol?” She explained, holding up in both hands sandwiches wrapped in paper. With a sigh and a craving for some disgusting calories, I grabbed my wallet from my desk and handed her some cash.

“For your efforts then. Don’t spend money on strangers. Now would you kindly leave the sandwiches on the table and go torment someone else, _please_?” To which she leaned towards me, giving me some naughty grin that would put the Cheshire cat to shame.

“Oh, don’t bother. I didn’t spend a penny on you. The lad from the diner gave them to me for free because I apparently have ‘pretty eyes’…”

She did tho. Rhea had very pretty eyes, lips, hair, mind and the list could go on. But that did not gave her the right to assume I am on call for whatever selfish desire she might have.

“…So the only form of payment I accept is your unbiased attention.”

“No.”  
“I won’t leave otherwise.”

“You know I could just grab you by the hair and throw you out.”

“Ohhh, kinky. But you won’t do it, ‘cause in the back of your head…” she then skated closer and clashed against my chest, not brutally, but with enough force that I had to steady myself not to let her push me over. “…you’re curious in what I have to show you. I’m not some dumb girl and you know it, and I can see it in your eyes…” She had her head tilted upwards, her unforgiving gaze showing me no mercy, and the scorching heat of her breasts pressed against my body was melting me by the second.

“…you’re wondering why some girl you just met last night spend her entire day looking for your depressed ass. Certainly what she has to show you must be incredibly interesting.”

Why, _why_ did she have to be so soft?

“Fine. Fine. I surrender. Sit the fuck down. I’m gonna go brush my teeth.” I grunted, turned around defeated and went to the bathroom, feeling her stare dig into my bare back.

Now, you might be thinking I gave up way too easily. That may be the case, because usually I was as stubborn as a mule and put up the most aggressive fight the second things did not go my way. But what you have failed to consider is that…

  1. She was right. I was, despite a pounding headache and an apathetic disposition, in the mood for what she had to show me.
  2. If she had stayed against me like that any longer, I would have gone completely insane and I still had a lot of business to do and places to see before they locked me up in an asylum.



So I diligently relieved my tortured bladder, brushed my teeth and drank water straight from the tap even though it wasn’t the wisest decision, then returned to find Rhea perched up on my desk, with her legs crossed and the latest issues of the Survey Corps laid out on her lap.

I grabbed two glasses from the cupboard and some cold water from the fridge and sat down on the chair by her side. After pouring each of us a drink, I began to scarf down one of those fat, juicy sandwiches, gesturing towards her that she may begin.

“Alright so, you know the content these guys usually publish. Political manifestos, written complaints about the regime, how they plan to throw the government over and rebuild the society, foreign examples of leaderships blah blah blah….” And I hummed in agreement. Rhea placed a strand of her hair behind her ear a continued, excited like a child who discovered how mirrors work or something.

“Well, in this issue, they write about the story of some political prisoner, which is obviously made up, but still…”

“How do you know it’s made up?” I asked with my mouth full, alternating between a bite and a deep gulp from my glass.

“Because it ends well.”

“okay, so it’s definitely made up. So what? Those guys are kinda shady anyway. It doesn’t seem beneath them to fabricate a story just so that they gain more readers. I bet they are attention whores in real life too.”

“Would you let me fucking finish?” She exclaimed and kicked my knee with her roller skate-clad foot. Which hurt like a motherfucker, but still.

“As I was saying…check out how this story goes. It says that many years ago, just after the Titans come to power, a young inmate by the name of Eren Kruger is rotting away in a prison cell because of his political beliefs and background. He has to carry out a life sentence, and his guards do their job so well, he is fairly convinced he will die in that cursed place.

But then, one night he hears some faint knockings coming from one of the walls. He places his ear against it and they become more audible: clear, definitely intelligent, some patterns repeating after regular periods of time.

At first, he’s obviously startled, thinking he’s just hallucinating to cope with the fact he’s done for. But then the next day, at exactly the same time, he hears the series of knocks again, and then the day after and the day after and so on.

Soon, he has learned the patter by hand and starts to write down whatever he’s hearing on the side of the cell hidden by his bed. Every once in a while, the patterns alternate and become more complex, as if his neighbor on the other side keeps introducing new words in the code every day. It takes the prisoner months before he senses the first connections in the secret rhythm, and then it takes him years to master this new, complicated language. Over time, they start to have a dialogue and the prisoner finds out his neighbor is trying to tell him an incredibly simple, yet breathtakingly daring escape plan. One night, following to a t the clear instructions of his partner, he manages to get out of the prison and becomes a free man.

Years pass, and the man returns, now rich and with a fake ID, to that place where his youth lays buried, asking for permission to visit his old cell, in hope that he can return the favor and save the man whom he owns everything to. A guard leads him to the cell, and the rich man asks him about the prisoner next door. Who are they? Are they still alive? Do they have a death sentence too?

But he finds out, to his utter stupefaction, that on the other side of the wall there is nothing more but the sky and the sea. The wall faces the outside, and he never had any neighbors. All along, what the prisoner was hearing were only the waves clashing against his cell.”

Rhea finished the story, eyebrows furrowed and legs waggling, and I put the food aside and took out a cigarette from the abandoned pack on my desk.

“My, my, what a story!” and the smoke rose up in the air. “Completely made up, but interesting, I gotta admit it.” My partner in crime helped herself with a cigarette too and lit it up in haste.

“Yeah, but…is that all you think about it?” She asked me, her hopes crashing down. I leaned back in the chair and took a long drag.

“Oh sorry.” I spat with irony. “Was I supposed to unveil some great truth from a B-list article just because I’ve read some books about meaning? Excuse you, I say.”

“No, of course not…it’s just…” But she swallowed her words and looked out the window, turning her head to the side.

Her profile enticed me, I noticed she had a freckle right on her jawline, and that sweet neck…dear god… it looked so fragile, out there in the open, she wouldn’t stand a chance if I were to wrap my fingers around it and.

Just

.press.

down.

really.

hard. Slow. With no mercy. I bet her eyes would roll into the back of her head and the tip of her tongue would peak out of her mouth and…

_Fucking shit. What the hell was wrong with me?_

I had to tear my eyes away from Rhea before the caveman in me would start drooling or something. This was so out of character for me and I did not like it at all. Back to business was it then. We were talking about the article. Anyway…

“How does this story make you feel?” I asked, breaking the heavy silence. She just shrugged.

“Confused. Out of place. Stupid that I can’t figure it out. That’s why I came to you, maybe there’s something here you see that I don’t. I feel that there’s a deeper meaning to all of it but no matter how much I scramble my brain for an answer, it keeps slipping between my fingers.”

“Bingo. That’s it. You’ve figured out the message of the story. Now would you kindly leave me the fuck alone please?”

“Wait a second! What do you mean? There is no message, is that what you mean?”

“No, not at all. The story is trying to make you feel confused. Terrified even.” I began to explain, stopping once in a while to take a drag out of my cigarette.

“ That all around us, there’s a way of escaping this nightmare. Something out there sends you codes, rhythms and secret languages…” I felt way too late her calf was rubbing deliberately along my outer thigh at a slow, languorously pace. I froze in my spot and forgot how to move, my eyes narrowed and fixed her own, not daring to look down. Her touch was so foreign, out of place and incredibly arousing in its simplicity.

_Princess, are you flirting with me in the middle of a discussion about human helplessness?_

“… and the way out, out from your inner prison, from your torment, from this fucked up country and from your self-hatred is so simple, yet so out of reach.”

 _Yes I am._ Her eyes seemed to answer. _Do you like it?_

“ …There has always been a way and signs have shown up all along. But your senses were too weak to pick them up, too fragile. The prisoner needed a life sentence and nothing to lose to understand the message, whereas we are always too busy and never notice anything until it’s too late.”

_Very much so. Please don’t stop._

“…Like a cat that licks and nibbles on its master’s finger instead of looking in the direction it’s pointing at.” I finished in an aggravated tone, tearing my eyes away from her scorching ones.

“woah.” Rhea moaned in awe, stopping her movements when the spell broke. “You really have your way with words.”

“I wouldn’t say so. You just got me into a talkative mood.” I answered with a big fat lie, knowing full well I never was in a talkative mood.

“No way!” Rhea said, sipping on her water. “Look at all those manuscripts lying around!” And she gestured to the plethora of scattered papers. “You clearly have some awesome subjects to tell the world! Like Homer!”

“Not really. I limit myself to anti-titanical statements of beliefs. All you see here is just boring political complaints.”

“Nu-uh” She disapproved. “It sounds similar to the usual articles published in the Survey Corps.”

“Yeah, except those are actually well written.” I huffed sarcastically.

“I’ll see about that” Rhea smirked and ripped one of my papers that got stuck inside her wheels. A deep sense of shame engulfed me when she began looking over it. Faster than lighting that paper was snatched from her hands, crumpled and tossed in the trash.

“Don’t even bother. There’s a long way to go before i can even call myself a mediocre writer.”

“Lies!I bet you write amazing and you’re just shy.” She winked at me and hopped off the desk. In the warm afternoon light, her hair seemed to float the slightest, never in tandem with her movements, like the previous night when she danced on the table and made it seem like I was living a fairytale.

“Don’t you have someone else to bother?” I asked, feigning bitterness, my way of saying ‘I want to talk to you more because it’s the first time a person captivated me this much, but in the same time I don’t want to pressure you because I’m aware I’m not the most pleasant companion.’

“Lucky for you, I don’t.”

“What do you mean ‘lucky for me’?”

“Dunno. You just look like you could use some company.”

“Because we have some common subjects to talk about?”

“Because you seem so sad it pains me.”

I scoffed. “Listen lady, you might have some savior complex in that fucked up little head of yours, but you don’t know anything about me and even if you did, I certainly don’t need your pity.” _Or deserve it._

“Calm your tits please.” She laughed and leaned to grab her back pack left on the floor. “Levi, you think like any wounded men out here, that their saving is some ditz girl with a will to live, when in reality, what they really need…” Unzipping it, Rhea pulled out a vinyl record with David Bowie’s face on it, you know, the famous one with the red hair and lighting across his face.

“…is a decent taste in music. Now why don’t you give me something to play this on?”

I had to bite my lip so hard to stop myself from showing this girl a warm, genuine smile. Tossing the machine to her, I sat down on the chair backwards, resting my chin and my extended arms on the backseat. The first lyrics of the album started playing, and I stared at this girl lolling her head from side to side, thinking that she was so different from my usual taste in women, with her tenderness and submissive nature, so unlike the things I usually craved,

So unfit for me, that things might just get interesting between us.

~..~

I have pondered a lot over my actions from that day, and I have to say this …

Thank you.

Thank you, Rhea, from the bottom of my stone-cold heart.

You had no reason to stay. I acted rudely even though you didn’t do anything wrong, I threatened to kick you out and chased you away because I’m an insecure asshole who hides behind his cruelty.

And yet you didn’t left. You stayed.

Do you have any idea how much that meant? Of course you don’t, since all you’ve known is the land beyond the walls, but let me explain.

This world I live in, the government, the people around me, they never fail to remind you that you’re disposable. That you can be replaced as soon as you take the wrong step. . Friendships, love, jobs, they are tossed to the gutter at the first lack of dedication.

Nobody prefers your company if you’re not desirable.

Nobody but you. You liked me when I had nothing to offer. And when all you’ve experienced is conditional love, this type of shit crushes you from the inside.

Why did you do it? Why didn’t you leave me to rot in that room?

You weren’t aware of your words, but back then was the first time someone said I had a chance at being a genuine writer. All the others…

My uncle…

The Literature high school teacher…

The Professor from college…

Even my best friend, Farlan….

They all thought that it was just a transient phase, the type people have for a year or two when they’re young and hopeful before they settle down and never dwell on those time-wasting things again.

‘Do you like starvation?’

‘A great writer is born only once in a generation!’

‘Your lack of imagination is hilarious.’

‘Cut the crap out, you sappy idealist, you'll never make it as a writer, heh.’

All those words, meant to demolish me, born out of their own impotence, hang on one side.

And on the other side…there are yours

‘ I bet you write amazing and you’re just shy.’

They don’t even stand a chance.

Do you know what I’ve been up to, Rhea?

I work undercover for the Survey Corps, writing the redeemed political pamphlets I used to gawk over with you. Two out of five publications each issue come straight out from my typewriter.

Teaching high school children during the day, tearing down the oppressive regime at night. You could bet your ass I’m the new Batman.

Huh.

I’m still sad, though. Just like you assumed that day. I have always been so fucking sad, my life has been nothing but a continuous string of misery which you have managed to completely obliterate for a short period of time. But you’re gone now, so the demons have claimed their old domain and never let me breathe.

Don’t worry your sweet ass, I’ve almost learned to live with it. Some days are bearable,

Then there are days when I can almost feel you in my arms. I hate those the most.

And at last there are the days when compulsory administrative meetings happen. Now those are some real shit horroshow...  
  


~ Some flavorless present~

Erwin has summoned the whole teaching staff today for another boring, horrible meeting. We’ve gathered all, young and old, dumb and dumber, in the dilapidated classroom next to the teachers’ lounge.

I take the first seat by the window, right in front of darling Mr. Undercover Commander, like the diligent and obedient lapdog I apparently am now. I stare out the window, my real self wandering elsewhere, far away, wandering on and on invisibly and having nothing to do with my life. Eld Gin, a geography teacher, sits by my side, nagging me with some stupid yet exhilarating jokes. I tolerate him; he’s a nice guy, so in return he gets half of my attention span.

A weird, moronic joy, probably caused by those horrible late-November rains, makes my colleagues nervous and agitated, especially the ladies who never cease to shut up.

“Can you believe the nerve some people on the council have? They banned me from dissecting frogs in class! Yes, yes, I tell you, that’s what they did! I tried to do everything in my power, but the next generations will never know the true joy of live vivisections!” Hanji wails a few rows in the back, her loud voice making my ears itch. I glance at her from time to time; she doesn’t seem to care whether someone listens to her or not, and neither does she notice the sour eye rolls of the other teachers. I admire her a little. I would probably be a wreck if people were not interested in what I have to say, especially since I rarely engage in conversations (and I’m a cute, squishy, sensitive soul when you peel down my layers), but this woman seems to be doing just fine with her rhetoric. Hanji just sits in her spot, dressed in an inappropriate, way too colorful shirt and trousers, her long, scrawny arms almost hitting the unwilling audience.

A little puff rushes from my nose. She’s out of place and ridiculous as per usual, like an exotic butterfly among common moths.

If only she were a few inches shorter, played the accordion and enjoyed Greek mythology…

If only… but let’s not dwell on it.

Rhea’s not coming back and I know it. Neither as herself nor as crumbs of her traits in other women enough to satisfy me.

I am doomed to forever be a parched man.

But it’s still better than to take part in those conversations that lull in the background. Diseases, children and grandchildren, late night soap operas and dentist appointment; my colleagues don’t have many topics to talk about in the teacher’s lounge or before a staff meeting starts.

Furthermore, each one perceives themselves as a ruling master over their individual “specialization”. They have split the world’s wisdom into chunks and are thankful for the tiny piece inside their pockets:

The music teacher, Miss Nanaba, is delicate and ornamental like a way too polished statue. She’s also quiet as one, but you should see her sharply coming to life like a kitch Galatea every time we mention Mozart or Ceaikowski: her eyes become wet, round earrings chink, and details pour out of the closet, about concerts, uvertures, symphonies, or maybe just spicy details about musician’s lives; useless and pedantic nonsense, just like her existence itself. She has never formulated an opinion, not even a dumb one, about music her entire life.

At the slightest mention I or Petra make about Dostoyevsky, the Russian language teacher jumps. Flagon is a truly dedicated servant to the regime’s values, at least during daytime, and reports dutifully our (to be read mostly as _mine_ ) bad behavior to Erwin, as any worker of the state should.

The kids rightfully perceive him as a demon since not only once he has slapped their hands with a ruler, but this ain’t the west, some petty violence is the last of our problems. Besides, I know my children. They are strong, alive and much smarter than my fellow comrades, it’s gonna take more than a beating or two for them to give up.

“Yes, yes, Dostoyevsky…” he usually interrupts the conversation. “ Feodor Mikhail Dostoyevsky, yes yes. He was a great Russian writer who showed loved and compassion to the working class. But he had his ideological limits as well…”

I usually turn my head the other way around when he speaks, fighting a basic instinct to not spit him in the face, thinking if this little bitch even knows what he is talking about or did he recite the definition to ‘ideology’ while jacking off until it got stuck inside his head because of the serotonin?.

“ Comrade Ackerman, no matter what you say, he cannot be compared to the great Tolstoy, whose writing grasps the whole mankind…” and then Tolstoy up and Tolstoy down, Tolstoy here and Tolstoy there, Flagon’s mouth is a broken record each time he sees me so much that I’ve ended up preferring the company of whorish teenagers over his.

And then there’s Mrs. Ilse Langhar, our run down high school’s doctor docent honoris causa in history. You could minding your own business, mentioning Alexander the Great (even if you’re talking about the street named after him) and then she perches up automatically: “ 356-323 BC”. Telling someone that you’re later visiting your parents on the Great Union avenue? The same impersonal voice of a robot adds “ 23rd may 1956”. Besides dates and facts, ( every pointless ascensions and descents of our small nation’s kings during the Middle Ages) Mrs. Ilse is also an expert in what she calls ‘causes and reasons’. Why did the Napoleonic wars break out? Why did Hannibal use elephants? Why did we invent the steam engine? Why solar eclipses happen? Why do people fall in love? Why do we have butt hair?

With a smirk that radiates utmost superiority, this woman has an answer that can match even your deepest questions about the universe.

Wanna hear it?

Of course you do…

She takes a deep breath and says, time after time, slowly and surely: “ it’s because of human exploitation.” And I tense. Mrs. Ilse continues:

“ Mr. Ackerman, or do you prefer Socrates?” she asks with such irony, like it’s shameful to get close to your students so much that they give you a nickname. “If you dig up a little, the same things are buried under each of your philosophical ideas, ‘idealisms’ and ‘metaphysics’: social disputes, class privilege, protecting the interests of the rich from **us** , the poor, unlucky masses.”

You know, I’ve always hated violence against women, but this specimen right here can definitely benefit from a ‘metaphysical’ bitch slap. But since I can’t do that, I told her once ‘you forgot to add stupid.’ And a complaint addressed to me came faster than you could say “cheated my way through college diploma and master’s degree”.

For decades my comrades have been repeating the same laws, theorems, data, equations, poems, quotes; what they consider to be “the greatest things ever written by the human kind”, and they whoop the asses of students who are not able to repeat their teachings, word after word, by the time next class comes.

Even if it has nothing to do with their lives and they force themselves to forget everything as soon as school is over.

I imagine how every kid in this school must have in the depth of their pure mind a completely ruined scenery; like the world they live in, like this moldy school or the unpaved, muddy road that leads to it.

The centuries of knowledge that manage to get jammed in their skulls are scraps, broken bricks and debris, rusty pipes to the outside world, splinters of education that I sometimes scare myself thinking about what a crumbling tower of Babel others must have created inside their head.

I wish I could do more for them, I wish I’d save them like some lambs from the slaughter.

Erwin takes his usual spot at the teacher’s desk. On the podium, dear comrade Zeke joins him, representing both the will of the Titan Party and the Math department by some peculiar twist of fate because his mush brain doesn’t seem to cooperate in anything other than annoying me.

Slowly, the chit-chat dies and soon the only sound you can hear are the needles because Miss Nanaba and her gang are crocheting during meetings.

This gatherings start in hopeless boredom, and it goes on as the same circus with Zeke mumbling Party Instructions, quoting the Colossal Titan, topped with some bullshit truism about teaching, ethics and etiquette in our perfect society. And all of this lasts a whole hour during which I want to crawl on the walls so much that I consider joining the crocheting club in the back.

I don’t get why Erwin lets me be tortured like this…Why do I deserve this? Have I not done everything he had asked me to?

Isn’t our world a terrible place anyway? Don’t I settle for speck of dust in the grand scheme of being? Don’t all of us go mad in the flesh and bones prisons of our bodies?

Don’t I have to face either way the fact that I grow old, that our teeth fall, that I’ll get nightmarish infirmities and horrible illnesses no matter what I do, that I am doomed to be stuck in agony and then disappear, never to make sense of this world again?

Do I need this tyranny too? And some imbeciles preaching it to my face every day, not understanding a word of what they’re saying, like they don’t understand neither classic poems, nor physics laws, nor atoms, nor gods, nor the class fight, the same people that would preach anything in the same monotonous voice as long as they can get their afternoon naptime, their only god and friend?

By the time the meeting is over, a wild longing for strong emotions and sensations seethes in me, a rage against this toneless, flat, normal and sterile life. I have a mad impulse to smash something, this high school, perhaps, or the walls, or maybe myself.

~..~

Do you want to smash things too, Rhea?

I’m thinking about the kids in my homeroom class, about Eren and his goody-two-shoes-yet-totally-falling-apart sister. They’re at that age when they like smashing and setting on fire everything standing in their way. You’d definitely like them and they would fall in love with you in an instant, I’m sure of it. They would definitely learn from us everything we have to offer, and then, when we're too tired, we could just sit back and watch how they save this world using everything we'd taught them. I say this to you like an excited child, still...

I wish you’d meet them. 

I wish you’d…

Call me anytime,

Come over whenever you want, uninvited

Visit me in my dreams,

Love me in another lifetime,

Make sense out of my life once more,

 _Please_ ,

Save me.

Yours truly, to the grave

Levi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for everyone who has supported! Especially Eldian-chow, your reviews give me life.  
> Anyways, I'm back to writing yaaaay!  
> this chapter is inspired by Steppenwolf, The Solenoid, The Oak Tree.  
> Image is from everydayeasterneurope on instagram.


	13. Mikasa: Hamlet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She's aliiiiveee.

_Mikasa_

Days have passed since Eren’s private performance at the theater hall.

They turned into weeks, then into a whole month, and suddenly winter break is just around the corner. December brings a different kind of air around. You could say the colder it is outside, the warmer it is between them.

Winters are harsh in Paradis, yet each year the Titans refuse to acknowledge it, praying that global warming arrives sooner and they’ll be spared from the extra administrational costs. Nature, of course, serves them a nice dish of ‘fuckno’ with a side of ‘extra strong blizzards and heavy snow’. The roads get stuck, snow removal machines are nowhere to be found, heat pipes are frozen, trams don’t run, you can’t get to work, the school closes down and when the citizens ask why is this still happening after so many terms, the Titans merely shrug their shoulders and say ‘ we weren’t expect such heavy snowfalls’.

Mikasa wants to punch someone in the face each time she hears of such incompetence, but Karla Jaeger, Eren’s mother, has long lost such feelings and her mere thoughts now involve surviving instincts. The tactic at hand involves staying in the kitchen for as long as possible, where the stove is working (for now) and pots are always boiling with food. It’s always warm in here and besides, who knows when the heating system might fail again.

So the kitchen table is a witness to many memories, good or bad, in the cold season.

This evening is no different. The young girl is keeping Mrs. Jaeger company while copying down some equations for her math homework. She solves them automatically, absent-minded, her pen dragging loudly across the paper. Pages are being turned, one after another. All of a sudden, a piece of paper pops up between two laminated sheets of her textbook:

_I promise to love you completely in my next life. Forgive me for this one._

She skips onto the next chapter. On the opposite chair, Karla Jaeger is sipping her vermouth while listening to the weather forecast on the small radio. The atmosphere is familiar, cozy. The Jaegers are considered one of the wealthier families, and mother hen makes sure the household lives up to that reputation.

For example, Karla makes sure every inch of the kitchen is crowded with jars. Small, big, half-empty, it doesn’t matter, recipients are scattered everywhere in an organized chaos. Next, there are the utensils.

Their knife collection could make any serial killer jealous.

Mikasa doesn’t really get the hype with this maximalism. It’s probably a thing in poor nations like Paradis. The more you lack, the harder is the impulse to show others you’re loaded.

From time to time, Karla’s eyes drift from the radio, to her glass, then the pots, and finally to Mikasa. The young girl literally feels the gaze silently judging her appearance. Mrs. Jaeger doesn’t even need to say a thing it, the girl feels it. A silent disagreement regarding her crimson lipstick, heavy eyeliner or red plaid skirt.

But Mikasa has better things to think about.

She and Eren are currently in a relationship worthy of a telenovella. Secrets, hiding, dramas, and all the jazz, teenage love has a tendency to be troublesome anyway. Especially when you’re involved with the son of your legal guardians. But it’s not like they care, because now, two restless rebels find some peace within each other. Get it? Things are slowly working out between them, each subtle touch is reassuring, each whisper hot in her ear.

The young girl flinches when the steam hisses out of the pressure cooker, the domestic noise waking her up from the warmth-induced drowsiness. Karla dutifully gets up from her chair to check on the food, grabbing some spices from the top shelf. Black eyes drift to the small note Annie wrote that cursed day, the neat handwriting waking up something inside her.

In truth, she knows something is still lurking in the air at school. Each time Eren discreetly wraps an arm around her middle, or rests his head on her shoulder during recess, Mikasa feels a pair of blue eyes in the back of her neck. If she were to turn around, for sure there’d be the longing, apathetic gaze of Titan scum offspring. A conversation lingers on the back of her brain.

_“Annie,” Mikasa pants in her girlfriend’s bed, drowning in post-orgasmic bliss. “I don’t know what I’ll do if we stop…” And the blonde girl rolls back on top of her, resting her chin on the other’s chest. A light coat of sweat glazes her features._

_“What do you mean by that?” Blue eyes question her._

_“If you leave me…if we break up…what are we gonna do? Will we be able to never see each other again?”_

_“Mikasa… No,” Annie whispers, in a rare moment of tenderness, while dragging her cold, clammy knuckles down her lover’s face. “Silly girl, we’ll see each other everywhere. Have you forgotten we learn at the same school, for God’s sake? If we are to break up, we’ll both inconveniently bump into each other every day, in classroom, or at sport practice, in the bus, and that will be it. You’ll be with Eren, for sure, and I’ll be dating someone else, Berthold perhaps, to get rid of the rumors._

_And the more we cross paths, love, the less it will hurt, until finally, the pain won’t matter anymore._

_You’re strong, Mikasa, and trust me, at the 10 year high school reunion you’ll look once more right into my eyes and feel like nothing ever happened between us. I can almost see you.” And the kiss that follows is bitter, gentle and holds an immense weight Mikasa hates to bear._

Annie was wrong, though. Her tired heart knows something will always be there, strange and otherworldly, but she’s tired of letting ‘ifs’ and ‘wills’ define her. Mikasa needs compassion and she needs it now, and if someone gets you off doesn’t mean they necessarily care about you. Of course, there’s a long way to go and surely, the wounds still hurt, but she’s more than a bad deed on a perfect record, a failed situationship or a misplaced act of rebellion. The grip on her pen tightens. The road to self-respect is very steep.

Besides, her loyalties have always laid elsewhere. This girl is now aware of what she likes or needs, and the best this whole ‘Annie’ ordeal can give her is some inspiration for a poem.

Yet she can’t bring herself to throw away that little note for good.

Mikasa is nervously smoothing out the floral oilcloth when the front door opens. She turns around and sees Eren, cranky and handsome as ever, standing in the doorway. Green eyes make their way up to her figure, and they both exchange smiles so warm they could fix the heating problem of the whole neighborhood. Making his way to the kitchen, Eren takes off his boots mid-walk while unzipping the winter jacket.

“Watcha cooking, ma?” The boy asks while dipping his nose in one of the saucepans.

“Ahaaa…Look who’s decided to show up now that they’re hungry…” Karla scolds him while stirring the content of three pots simultaneously. “You’re always out. Out, out, and never in, to help around. All you do is eat and sleep here. This is a hotel for you! Mhmm.” But her son merely rolls his eyes and is already leaning down to press an affectionate kiss to Mikasa’s head crown.

Eren absolutely adores the smell of that midnight-black hair.

“How’s my favorite thing in the world doing?” . He manages to sneak in those low, sultry whispers that make shivers run down the girl’s spine. She’s not used to those low-blow displays of affection, even though they’ve been constantly happening for a while. Truth be told, things are perfect between her and Eren .

Sorta.

They still have to hide from their parents and most of their classmates. But this mess right here is on the right track. Whatever that means. Ever since the incident in the theater hall, Eren has been more genuine to her, less manipulative and so touch starved to the point that they can’t be left alone for a second without him pouncing on her. She almost can’t believe how lucky she is.

Brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, Eren throws a small brown package on the table.

“This came in the mail for you.” He then explains in his normal tone. Reluctantly, she opens up the envelope. Inside, there is only one cassette. The expeditor side is left blank, and when Mikasa opens up the cassette holder, there’s only a handwritten note.

_It’s been weeks, Miss Rodin, and the pain is still pulsing in the imaginary spot we were connected. Sure, I’ve tried patching it up, with Annie and all that, and still the wound just won’t close. It keeps bleeding and smells like an early death. So here I am. Laying on the operating room, waiting for the doctor to come and sew the stiches._

Her eyes widen as they drift over the inconspicuous words.

_Stiches for your wounds._

_All the love,_

_-Miss R._

She shuts the container close and hides it in her lap quicker than she can say ‘trouble’.

“What’s that, Mika?” But it doesn’t matter, because mom pries anyway.

“My monthly subscription to audio plays. This month I get Hamlet.” Too bad Mikasa can lie even better than the Government.

“Ohh, interesting.” Karla comes up to them, ruffling Eren’s brown locks. “See that boy? Your sister has such nice interests, why can’t you be more like her?”

“Mom, I literally played Hamlet last year in the school play.” He mutters in obvious betrayal, grabbing her hand and taking it out of his hair.

“Yeah, yeah, as if I don’t know what y’all actors are into. Come on, let me smell your breath.” Her son blows some air and after a few sniffs, Karla declares in defeat.

“Alright, you smell like mint. But remember, I’m watching you. I know what you’re after, boy.” Of course there has to be a way for her to come out on top. Like a cat which always lands on her feet. Eren gets that smugness from her.

“Oh really?” He cocks an eyebrow and grips the wood backrest of Mikasa’s chair. “What am I after?”

“Drugs.” His mom says all knowingly.

“Mom, we literally live in a dictatorship. I can barely get my hands on a Michael Jackson poster, what makes you think I can obtain drugs?”

“You never know Eren…I just want what’s best for you.”

“I know, I know. It’s just that I’m tired. Been working with Armin on the presentation poster for this year’s play. I can’t wait to show it to you.” He changes the subject while slumping down in the chair near Mikasa.

“ Honey, that’s great and all, but what about your grades?”  
“What about them?”

“I’ve heard you aren’t doing so well in math…” Karla starts pushing some buttons as she slides in her seat in front of the kids.

“So?” comes his disinterested reply.

“So you’re not interested in good grades?”  
“Mom. We’ve been through this before. The entrance exam to acting school consists on audition only.”

“Eren…You know I support your passions, but your future is serious business.”

“And I treat it as such. Acting is the only thing I wanna do with my life.” Uh-oh. It’s bad news if Eren’s raising his voice so early in an argument.

“You can’t say you have your entire life figured out when you don’t even wanna try anything else. Math, English, Russian, Chemistry, what’s wrong with all of these subjects?

Or think about those kids wishing they had a doctor in the family, like you do, to help them get admitted into medical school.”

“ For someone who calls themselves supportive you sure as hell don’t say many supportive things.”

Eren starts the usual riot nonchalantly, and Mikasa feels awkward, sitting between two hot heads who don’t know where to quit. She can’t bring herself to interfere, even after living with them for so long. Sure, the cupboards are familiar, and this house holds many happy childhood memories.

She and Eren used to play all the time as toddlers, from the crack of dawn until it was dark outside, but at the end of the day, mom and dad always came to pick her up, greeting their little girl at the front door of the Jaeger household with a warm smile. She vividly remembers gripping her mother’s skirt while Karla is blabbering how this runt is the best guest she’s had in ages.

Emphasis on guest.

Because that’s still how she feels like.

A guest.

And she used to like it very much. The small girl could play with Eren for however long she pleased, and then, when things got either violent or boring Mr. and Mrs. Ackerman were there to take her away. Mikasa was truly getting the best of both worlds.

Until one day when she isn’t.

There are still nights like these, when she stares at the front door for the longest time, waiting for her parents to just pop up in the hallway, ready to take their scared little girl home for good.

Her real home. With her real parents…

But the door never opens, and The Jaegars are now registered as her legal guardians.

Mikasa tears her eyes from the door and back to the catfight between mother and son.

From a logical point of view, who should she side with?

Defending Eren means more affection in the future and perhaps some stealthy-done stress relieving activities tonight.

But taking Karla’s side means more pocket money aka extra funds to support her Marlboro bad habit.

It’s a tough choice…

Lucky for her, guests aren’t allowed to take sides.

“Eren, all I’m saying is not to put all your eggs in one basket.” His mother interferes again.

“ What eggs, mom? What eggs? Do you think I’m like Mikasa and have one egg reserved for each existing university in Paradis?

No mom. I only have one egg, and it’s acting. I’ve never been good at anything else all my life, and believe me, the only time I feel proud of myself is on stage.”

He pauses. A heavy silence sits on his shoulder.

“And you want to take that away from me too.”

“Well, if you spend more time researching what you like instead of wasting it with a bunch of punks, perhaps you’d have more eggs to give!”

“What’s wrong with not wanting a bland boring desk job?”

“I tell you what’s wrong. You’ll be able to handle this lack of stability when you’re young, but what are you gonna do when you start growing tired, bald and sick? Others will come behind you, restless and more prepared, ready to replace a B-list actor the second you’re not putting it all on the stage and you’ll end up a homeless alcoholic.”

Karla downs the rest of her vermouth in one go while Eren’s grinding his teeth so hard it’s audible.

“Name one actor you know with a stable income and a good mental health.” This woman has a thing for getting on his nerves.

“Jeremy Irons. Juliette Binnoche….”

“From Paradis, boy. This ain’t no Hollywood.”  
“ Eren Kruger.”

“That’s one person! One, one good, rich, fulfilled actor amongst hundreds of others that graduate every year and end up working in a factory. And who knows what skeletons he’s hiding in his closet!?” But he just scoffs and looks to the side, pretending the conversation is done, like an upset pug who thinks he’s real shit when in reality he just looks hilarious.

“Your sister has her interests too but unlike you, she knows where to draw the line between fun and future.”

Uh-oh. Guess who just made Etna reignite? Spoiler alert: it’s a 30-something year old woman.

“Number one. She’s not my sister. Number two, you have a lot of nerve making assumptions when you barely know anything about her, old lady.” And his gaze is so hot and filled with hatred, it could probably cause that damn global warming the Titans are praying for.

“Oh, I know plenty about her. She’s a wonderful young woman who has a beautiful road ahead and you’d better do well and make her feel part of this family too because I can’t do all the damn work.”

  
Are you familiar with the expression ‘the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’? Here you can see it perfectly illustrated.

“Really now?” Eren whispers, and Mikasa flinches when, under the table, hidden from the view, his hand comes to rest on her thigh. The boy leans back in the chair, locking gazes with Karla.

“Who’s her favorite teacher?”

“What?” Panic and confusion seep in abruptly into Karla’s features.

“You’ve heard me loud and clear. Who’s her favorite teacher?”

“Can you please stop acting like I’m not here?” Mikasa questions in annoyance, and the more she growls, the further Eren’s hand creeps up her thigh, warm finger pads stroking the inner side.

“Be quiet, please. I’m just trying to prove a point.” He replies, never breaking eye contact with the enemy. She gently slaps his hand away, once, twice, signaling him to behave, but again and again he returns, each time more determined, until she can’t resist anymore, leans back and enjoys the touch, especially since it feels so good, in its true simplistic defiance.

Mikasa knows better, this is Eren’s way of saying ‘ I’m so head over heels for you baby, that I’m willing to get caught just because I want to touch you, so bad,

each and every time,

_all the damn time,_

not just when we’re in bed, bored and alone.’

“ The homeroom teacher.”

“ Buzz! Wrong answer!” Eren announces his victory. “ That’s _my_ favorite teacher. She likes Mr. Smith more. Right, Mika?” But when she remains quiet, a stinging pinch on her leg gets her back to reality.  
“Y-y-yeah. I find Mr. Smith more helpful and kinder.”

“Round two, then. What does she want to do after graduation?”

“Become head supervisor at the printing house.” His mom answers whole-heartily.

“She’s got that one right, Eren.” The girl says, trying to calm down the angry boy, but in return she just gets his hand to roam higher and higher, each syllable leading him to the junction between her thighs.

“Now Mikasa, I didn’t take you for a liar. Everyone knows that the printing house bullshit is plan B in case you’re not accepted into Journalism. Which, of course, you will. I mean, have you seen yourself? you’re smarter than the whole class combined.”

“That she is!” His moms jumps to add.

“You’re not off the hook yet, mom. Final round!” He declares, as his fingers escalate dangerously close to her clothed lady parts. Mikasa is certain she can’t handle this for long before she bursts from embarrassment.

“If she were a flower, which one would she be?”

“Oh, I know that one. She’d be a lotus flower.”

“Mom, that’s both wrong _and_ racist. Mika, here, declared that she’d like to be a plastic flower, so that she’d never get thrown in the trash the second she starts withering. Tell me if I’m wrong.” And he shifts his ocean-green gaze towards her, but she merely manages to nod while looking at the ground, her skin tingling all over.

“But that proves nothing, young boy!” His mom yells in defeat. And they say adults are supposed to have things under control…

“No, it doesn’t. But it should draw the attention that perhaps, who knows, it’s just an assumption…but maybe…just maybe…you enjoy more hearing about how great she is at the parent-teacher conference then actually listening to her. Consider it food for thought, mommy dear.” And his fingers leave Mikasa’s thigh just when it becomes hard to breathe, leaving her empty, disappointed, sad and aroused, a surely deadly combination.

“How about some food for thought for you, baby boy?” Karla crosses her arm, her frown just like Eren’s. “If you ever speak to me in that tone again, I’ll whoop your ass so hard _you_ ’d wish you were that plastic flower.”

But he just rolls his eyes and mimics the same behavior.

“Classing grown-up move. Threatening me when they lose an argument. Whatcha gonna do? Ground me really hard?“

“I’ll tell your dad you smoke.”

“Uhhh. That’s a low one, mom, even for you. Come on, Mikasa, it’s late, let’s go to bed.” Eren gets up from the chair and gestures for the other teen to do the same.

But if it’s one rule he respects in this family, it’s to never go to bed upset with each other. Circling the table, he kneels in front of his mother, resting his arms on her lap.

“If I promise to reconsider my life choices, will you spare me the wrath of my father?” He tries to reconcile, and her calloused, worked fingers come up to pat his head.

“ Get more than 80% on the next math test and my lips are sealed.” This woman for sure puts up with more than the legal amount of bullshit.

“We have a deal, mother demon.” He grins and rises to his feet, an ironic smile adorned on his face.

“Why are you such a handful, boy?” His mother asks.

“ ‘cause I take after you, mommy dearest. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight children. Sleep tight, don’t let the bugs bite.”

Mikasa takes her stuff away, waving Mrs. Jaeger goodbye, and follows Eren to their shared bedroom. As soon as the door closes, both of them remain silent, an awkward tension hanging up in the air. Notebooks and pencils are passively-aggressively thrown on the desk, along with the anonymous-but-not-really package. 

Recently she has discovered boundaries are a thing and Eren’s not involved in everything she does anymore. Some privacy is supposedly healthy in any relationship.

And that’s on self-respect, bitches.

Although she wishes she didn’t have to play that card on him.

On opposite corners of the room, both of them grab sleeping clothes and start changing by their respective bedsides, bare backs turned on the other. As her white, stained nightgown drapes over her knees, Mikasa dares to take a look over her shoulder. She sees Eren’s naked backside, olive skin adorned with goose bumps, and it’s one of those moments when she’s filled with longing.

The need for autonomy is important, that’s what you learn in school. Part of the human nature is getting used with loneliness, with doing things on your own and accepting the fact people don’t belong to one another.

But how do you deal with the needs of the soul? Because right now, Mikasa wishes she could sew herself to Eren using a red string. They could be happy as one and the sting of the needle will make it all more pleasurable when they’d finally be tied together for good. She can almost picture it, two people, back to back, some blood pouring down, bound for eternity. They wouldn’t even have to voice out their inconveniences, as blood vessels would carry feelings, good or bad, loving or vicious, from one heart to the other.

But that thought alone is scary, so back to the subconscious it goes.

Besides, the second she shows him signs of her co-dependency, he will push her away again for sure.

So Mikasa settles for the boundaries, power games and feeding him some sugar once in a blue moon.

“What the hell was that?” Her voice cuts through the cold air, more dreadful that intended.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, princess.” Eren plays innocent, throwing a hand-crafted T-shirt on. On the nightstand, there are some wet wipes, and he takes one out and strolls to the mad, pretty girl that’s still not looking at him.

“Turn around.” The young boy whispers lowly, tapping on her left shoulder blade. Albeit reluctantly, Mikasa spins on her heels and faces his chest with a pissed-off expression. Eren gently starts to take off her make-up with the wet wipe. His moves are so soft and considerate on her skin, she can’t believe it’s the same person who was shouting ten minutes ago.

“Oh, you sure do know what I’m talking about. Did you enjoy it? Acting all high and mighty in front of your mom? And using me like I’m some kind of experiment?” She viciously bites as her not-official- _boyfriend_ rubs her eyes with care. Off it goes with the dark liner, brown eye shadow and mascara. He grabs her chin and lifts her face towards him, carefully paying attention if there are any missed spots.

“Don’t let her get involved between us. I just wanted to get my point of view taken seriously.” Eren brushes her lips free of the usual dark lipstick she religiously wears, feeling her soft, plump lips through the wipe.

“I don’t wanna fight.” He says in a hushed tone and places a quick peck on her lips. She freezes for a second.

“Eren, you’ve never turned down a fight since the beginning of time.” The girl declares with a sad chuckle.

“I’m not interested if I end up hurting you again.” He responds so naturally. She crumbles a little.

Take that, boundaries.

“Me neither.” And another short kiss follows her words. “I just need a cigarette.”

Eren throws away the wipe in the trash and grabs his mess of a backpack. The plethora of rock band patches, badges, rainbow seams and whatnot makes it look so out of place in their world of conformity and norms. Mikasa thinks it look like vomit, but Eren takes pride in his ‘walking alternative culture encyclopedia’. She has tried to explain him so many fucking times that he doesn’t need to prove himself with some Nirvana, Queen and Sex Pistol merchandise, but who is there to listen?

A minute passes and he managed to fish out his hidden tobacco stash. Pulling out a white stick, he handles it to her. Mikasa can’t help but scrunch her face.

“Really Eren? Camel? That stuff tastes like dirt from the road the Government still hasn’t paved.”

“If you wanted you precious Marlboro you should’ve saved up money. Take it or leave it.” Seeing as she has no choice, the girl accepts his tiny gift.

Now, there is a little thing about how two teens manage to hide their mild nicotine addiction. The only available window in their room is the big one above the desk, which has to be wide open. But for the smoke not get inside, one must also lean over the windowsill, so that their upper body hangs outside.

That’s why Mikasa’s hopping up on the desk, opens the window, drags half her body out in cold air and lights up her cigarette. She has to sit on her knees and her legs are slightly spread for stability, showing her secret boyfriend quite the nice picture of her backside, totally not on purpose.

Yes, Eren has noticed.

Yes, Eren is staring.

Yes, Eren is having some…interesting thoughts people under 18 shouldn’t have.

But can you really blame him?

Mikasa is totally gorgeous, even more so when she’s not aware of it. With those soft Asian features and lean body, that girl is hard to resist.

“ Earlier, you assumed you know me when I feel like I don’t even know myself lately.” She whispers, her dark hair reflecting the moonlight, as the winter chill makes her shiver with each taken drag from the cigarette.

Eren almost gasps.

She looks ethereal, like the lonely, misunderstood witch you find in every sad fairytale.

The neighborhood is completely silent, and the boring houses, the street, the clouds, her hands, everything feels strange, unknown, scary. A feeling of living someone else’s life engulfs her, and it’s not pretty. She doesn’t feel this way in the summer, when Miss Rodin & Co. eat away all her time, but the winter is a different story. The isolation, the harsh weather, the long nights, makes her wonder when all of it is going to end.

How long will it be until she doesn’t have to fake it anymore?

How long until she escapes with Eren from this world of hunger, oppression, chains and unjustified cruelty?

A whole other world is waiting for them beyond the walls.

How long until her life is in her own hands for good?

She’s currently writing a poem about it.

“Eren, do you like cold or hot weather better?” her shaking voice asks in the dead of the night.

“I like warm winters and cool summers.” Comes his honest answer.

“huh. That’s because you’re a coward. You only want the good part of things.” Mikasa says, ash falling from the half-smoked cigarette. He sighs.

“Nothing I ever say is good enough for you. Mika, You’re cruel as hell.”

“Says the mean little bitch who teases me for their own pleasure.”

The words sink deep into Eren’s mind as the wheels slowly start to kick in. But it’s not hard to guess what his girlfriend is trying to hint at.

“Oh my, I get it now, baby.” His voice drops almost an octave as he makes his way to the desk. “You’re mad because of the thing I was doing earlier under the table. Why didn’t you say so from the start?” His left hand come to touch the back of her thighs, stroking the clothed flesh up and down in a slow pace. Mikasa’s breath hitches in her throat and for sure the shivers down her spine are not from the cold.

“Aww, that’s so sweet. Does princess want to be spoiled?” Well, he knows just how to tease, doesn’t he?

“Absolutely fucking not.” But she’s no easy prize either.

“Come on, you’ve been so stressed out lately. Bet you pack of Marlboro I can make all your worries melt down.” Eren’s nimble fingers grab the hem of her nightgown and slowly lift it up her legs.

“You’ll make it 10 minutes I’m never getting back.” Mikasa bites her lower lip as she feels the material hunched up on her hips.

“Auch. That hurt. I’m wondering if there’s anything I can do to change your mind.”

“Maybe there is…” A rare smirk creeps up her face. The cigarette has long since burned out when Eren lays down on the desk, back against the wood and legs dangling over the edge. If it’s something he’s grateful for, is those sturdy furniture the country produces that can hold the weight of two teenagers.

Mikasa feels his head resting in between her parted knees, and when she looks down, a pair of ocean-green eyes is staring right back at her with a malevolent gaze.

“We’re gonna get caught.” She tries one last time to back down.

“If you keep quiet we won’t.” Eren grunts between her legs, warm hands running up and down her thighs, trying to convince her to give in, and doing a damn good job while at it.

“I hate it when you tease, Eren.”

“Then why do you resist me so badly? Let me give you what you need, doll.”

Well, she really can’t say no to that.

“Come on princess…” 

“Sit down.”

~.~

Mikasa hasn’t slept that good in ages. By the time consciousness creeps up on her brain again, she’s all drowsy beneath the heavy blankets. It’s the last week of school, the alarm hasn’t rung up yet, and the rational side of her brain refuses to wake up. The darkness outside gives the young girl no indication of the current time. This is paradise.

No one in their small town likes the winter. Those superficial phonies perceive it merely as a season of inconveniences: cold days, watery mud on the roads, long nights stuck in the house, you get it. Perhaps that’s why she feels entitled to like it so much.

Mikasa perceives this season as a mirror image of how other see her: distant, frozen, beautiful yet unavailable. She takes a deep breath, wanting to cradle winter’s cold, dead face in her equally chilly hands and whisper ‘ I love you the most. Because nobody else will but me, and I want to make sure you don’t feel left out. All the shit others throw at you, is because those dumb bitches are blind and can’t see past the benefits you provide them. It does not mean you’re hard to love. You are easy to love, winter, and it’s fine not being everybody’s cup of tea. You’re my cup of tea. Boring normies opinions don’t validate you, or take away your beauty.’

And besides, when it’s warm outside, people always leave. It’s natural of course, to get out, party, enjoy life and long walks under the moonlight. But both spring and fall mean that Eren’s away too, most of the time, doing dumb shit without her. She recalls so many school mornings when he would just show up below the window after a wild party, with run-down eyeliner, tattered clothes and a burnt piece of hair, begging her to distract his parents so that he could sneak in.

She’d help him out of course, because she loves him, with those green puppy eyes that are hard to resist, but the feeling of abandonment would carry on well into the day.

This time, however, it’s a different story.

Mikasa’s eyes crack open and there he is, in bed with her. Waking up beside him is on top three best things in life. Eren’s holding her close in his arms, his face an inch or two away, looking so calm and rested it’s literally painful. Mikasa loves that soft look and the fact she’s the only one allowed to see it. His skin is hot, the muscles are tense around the small of her back, their hold anything but gentle. It’s needy. Eren is needy. He’s right here, addicted to _her_ , craving _her_ presence.

And he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

Mikasa’s smile is bittersweet. She takes a deep breath while nudging herself closer to him.

But sometimes even Eren’s closeness is not enough to make her forget. Outside of his warm embrace, there is a world against them, distant and uncaring, people that at first sight seem to love his carefree attitude and her coolness, but who, deep down, would sell both of their asses to the Titan Police for two corn chips.

It has always been like this. The harsher this world is to them, with its shortages and discriminations, the stronger their embrace is. Who else could grant their wandering souls the solace they need?

For sure Mikasa can hide under their shared umbrella, but for how long? How strong is she really? People see her as nothing but an automatized object, ready to be charged with expectations.

“I cry for stupid, and so the stupid beat me,” Her whispered voice breaks the primordial silence. Hands come up to explore Eren’s sleepy face, the first and foremost witness to all of her creations. This poem she has in mind needs touch-ups, but the heavy feeling lingers too hard on her chest. It finds its natural way out sooner or later, and Mikasa’s glad someone is there to appreciate her naïve attempts at writing poetry.

“Under the star I’m born they smile so shifty,

Of tenderness the more and more I darken,

My death will be from humanism and pity.”

Fingers brush the nape of his neck, then her index runs softly over the shell of Eren’s ear. He stirs in his sleep, but doesn’t turn away from his touch.

“Heartwarming hands I stretch out to comfort

Beasts chasing me famished and cruel still,

And I feel sorry I won’t kiss again,” Her curious fingers dips into his parted mouth. She’s fascinated by his sharp canine and presses her finger pad against it. For sure these teeth are a sign to stay away, but you know, self-destructiveness is her thing.

“Even the snout that comes for me to kill.

I haven’t even lived, not to offend someone,

And so my roots have grown in earthly dust,

Wasting this life trying to grow,

Claws on my fingers, for I must.” She finishes in the same hushed tone, caressing Eren’s gorgeous features.

“Wow. I sometimes forget how talented you really are.” Mikasa jumps when she hears his voice, hushed and so raspy in the morning.

“Did you hear that?”

“All of it, princess.” His smile is so happy and he hasn’t even opened his eyes yet. She blushes in embarrassment as the hand resting on her back comes up to play with her black strands.

“It still needs some touch-ups.” Mikasa adds, disappointed in herself.

“Well, I think it’s wonderful.” She smiles half-heartily. Eren’s words don’t mean very much when he is so easy to impress. Perhaps that’s why she even tells him all her works in the first place. Because there’s no way to fail with him, no harsh words to come, and his awe expression boosts her ego to the maximum.

“Why don’t we go back to sleep and cuddle some more?” He suggests, but Mikasa turns around, her back pressing against his chest.

“I don’t know if I can…I have a lot on my mind.”

“Thought so since you’re writing such sad poems.” Eren mumbles as his arms pull her closer, head resting in the crook of her neck. “What’s upsetting you, baby?” He pauses to inhale the smell of her skin. Maybe that’s how drugs are supposed to feel like.

“Same as usual. The sky falling, us growing old, the monotony of our lives but…I’ve been thinking about your mom.”

“What about her?”

“About how she said you should integrate me into the family. And how we’re doing the total opposite of that. Some thoughts just cross my mind but, we didn’t even give it a shot, you know?. We just jumped into this relationship like two decapitated chickens. What if the grow ups know better, Eren? What if we’ll end up breaking some rules for the sake of a doomed love story?”

But her boyfriend props his upper body up, resting it on one elbow, while his free hand grabs her chin and forces Mikasa to meet his annoyed eyes.

“Let’s make one thing clear, you dumb girl.” He growls.

“The only way I’m integrating you into this family is when I’ll put a ring on your finger.” He leans down seal his words with a kiss, but she turns her head away.

“Eren, don’t. My mouth probably smells like a dumpster.”

“Mikasa, do I look like I give a fuck?” He sighs and captures her mouth in a scorched kiss. She closes her eyes. Eren’s touch is very comforting. His hands roaming, chest pressing against hers, heartbeats perfectly synched, they all tell her the same thing.

‘Don’t rush things. Time is on our side. Let’s enjoy now.’

Winter is so nice.


	14. Levi: Letters to a Young Poet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI!!!! It's me!!!! I'm not dead, which is an awful surprise considering how many people wrote my obituary yesterday, preemptively, in case I did die ~ But I didn't, so suck on that~
> 
> All in all, life was a mess. But I compensate for the long pause with a lengthy chapter. Theoretically this is considered fluff, but, oh well.  
> I hope you enjoy!  
> The picture is a fragment from a Russian film, Ivan's Childhood, directed by Tarkowski.  
> The quote at the beginning is from the book in the chapter title.

“Be patient towards all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like you love locked rooms and books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to understand them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

\- Reiner Maria Rilke

I beg my distinguished readers not to label me as an astounding guy from the start just because I choose to begin this chapter with a quote. During my teenage years I even had this annoying habit to speak only using the words of others, which resulted in the melancholic popularity I had in my rural high school.

My classmates used to break their backs caring massive cassette recorders, play music and dance during Russian class. ..The old wacked up teacher, whom we had nicknamed Lenin, usually gathered all the school girls around him and taught them every swear and dirty words he knew. A couple of blokes in the back were browsing a Swedish porn magazine, and there was me, living in the world of others, scribbling useless fragments from T.S. Eliot or Camus’ works on the blackboard, completely out of place with the bacchanalian atmosphere of our poor and dusty classroom.

The girls sitting cross-legged on the teacher’s desk didn’t even bother to make a face or to burst out laughing anymore. They were used to my stupid antics. Most of my colleagues had looked through me as if I didn’t even exist, and this was how I made my way through the rest of the high school years: as a weirdo clad in a way too big uniform, who wrote undecipherable texts on the blackboard and stared too long at the big ass trees in the school yard.

I didn’t speak in quotes because I was a phony guy, nor to gloat about myself (teens can only be proud of their knowledge in rock music and the list of chicks they’ve banged, the rest is whatnot), but because I often loved an author up until madness engulfed me, so much that I thought that only their work is the fundamental truth, and everything else was empty talking.

Over time, I’ve stayed the same jerk who didn’t care what he was wearing, what he ate or what should be told over a beer or at a conference, but I’ve learned to show more kindness to my angsty past self, and I ask you to do the same. That boy’s got enough on his hands already. Even more so when I held onto the false belief that my world would end in high school. All the tears, all the suffering, the deaths and shortages felt like slamming into a brick wall harder than it should. College and dorm life threw me on a rollercoaster of stomach pains and poverty no nineteen year old deserved.

My younger version is a passionate, troubled teen who thinks that he can get away with most things if he fights hard enough. And old, tired me paternally pities him. This boy still hasn’t seen dead ends of alleyways and I can’t be the one to show it to him.

I see him sometimes. My young self, I mean. He pops up as a reflection in the mirror once in a while when I’m done shaving and cleaning the sink. A pale, extremely skinny boy with piercing gray eyes and a leather jacket coughs to strengthen his voice in the virtual field of reflected images. Philosophy student Levi is so angry at the world, always wearing a frown, and if the cops aren’t lurking nearby, some black paint around his eyes until you can’t tell the difference between him and wet raccoon. In his opinion, the more he looks like a deceased Roman prostitute, the better.

But how cannot he be disturbed? You see, dear audience, this reflection in the mirror has just learned that he’s alone, that people never have time for him unless they need a favor, or that there are men and women out there who willingly get hitched on the yoke without a fight, like obedient cattle, and contently lead a modest life, unbothered by what’s going on with themselves. Each day, the feral truth that Paradis is a stable full of primitive, disgusting, spineless oysters shakes the nineteen year old to the core.

Young Levi slams his foot on the sink, ripped jeans-clad legs bend at the knee. I brace my hands on the marble edges, leaning in to listen better.

I know what he wants to say to me. He recites the fragile truths of his world, some naïve beliefs a smooth brain has managed to come up with.

‘Number one: I won’t end up mediocre.

Number two: I won’t end up a slave.

Number three: I will never enjoy sappy romcoms.

Number four: I won’t become a resigned puppet.

Number five: I won’t sell my freedom for a paycheck.’

And so on and so on, those childish manifestos he shouts out loud with pride, as both Moses and God, go up until number 36 and become more and more life lusted. Young Levi wipes his mouth when he’s done, and although we’re at the same height, he looks down at me, mad that I dare to break many, if not all listed rules. He makes Holden Caulfield look like a preschool pacifist. What can I say in my defense? I used to be an impatient, angry prophet.

Ahh, I smile melancholically at this lost, demented alien, and a suggestion for a bargain rises. Young Levi is not a benevolent listener so he’s very hard to persuade, his gaze shifts to the side and a pale hand, adorned with some rings, rests on his knee . But alas, I manage to lure him in after I prove my worth to this brat by using some smart words.

“Young Levi,” I say, in the same flat tone I use on my students, “ you can’t hide it, it’s clear as a day. I’m just surprised the friends we used to have didn’t notice it.”

“Notice what?” The nineteen year old grunts, and I have to hold back an ironic laugh at his scoff. Was I always so goddamn stubborn?

“That you’re hurting so much.” And my own grey eyes stare at me, widening for a second, showing me their true sorrow, before returning to the previous statuesque apathy. He stays silent, so I follow with a few more words of encouragement.

“I know what you really need, Levi, deep, deep down, in the succumbing dark pits of your soul, where you don’t let even Rhea to take a look.” I lean closer to the mirror, and young Levi fights to take a step back. A quiet hum seeps out from my throat. Guess I have to show this rascal who’s the real animal in charge. It’s time to take the role of the benevolent demon. You may call me Mefisto.

“But in order to get it, you have to give me something in exchange for my efforts.” I go on, fixing his gaze and feeling my eyelids drop slightly. Who’s your daddy now, young fucktard?

“As if you have something I could use, old man.” Comes his angry response, never the one to back down a fight. “ Look at yourself. Is this what has become of me? A half-alive man who sells his wisdom for a pitiful paycheck?”

And the more he raises his voice at me, the more it’s clear that the façade is falling apart. The man in the mirror takes a second to get a grip, but alas, the disappointment in which he carries on hurts both of us the same. “What happened to the man who promised to write books, change the system and step off the hamster wheel?”

“ He has done enough. For better or worse, I’m trying my best out there.” But those words held no ounce of much needed comfort.

“I won’t take pity on you, old man.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Then what do you want from me?” Young Levi yells, frustrated, slamming his fist against the mirror, trying to escape the cage of no longer existing. I almost raise a hand to pat his messy dark hair, but that would be futile and childish. There’s no running from your own self.

“I want your eyes.” My response startles him.

“Huh?”

“I mean it. I wanna gouge your eyes out. And shove them back in my own skull. I’d look around then, you know? See this world the way I used to when I was your age. Look down at the people, wonder at how pretty summer really is. I can’t enjoy those things anymore. It’s interesting. We have the same shade of concrete grey, yet it holds completely different meanings.

The hatred in your eyes comes from not having seen enough. Mine comes from the fact I’ve seen too much. Levi, you look around all the time, believing that this world is hiding some secret from you. But this old man has taken a peak at what’s behind the veil. Nothing but a nasty pile of dirt, dead ends and shivering displays of basic instincts. There will be years of rummaging through garbage before you find something valuable in this chaos.”

Once again I raise a benevolent arm towards the reflection, stretched out for consolation. But before I could touch him, young Levi fades away into nothingness, and I’m left with the sickly reflection of a clammy, thirty year old man. My teeth grind in annoyance.

No matter how much I warn him, he’ll have to learn it the hard way.

But can you really blame him for being scared? This Levi understands nothing of my sadness. For him, life is simple, a one way road ready to be stepped on.

Imagine walking in his shoes. You’ve just finished the first year of college. You are (in your imagination, at least) an aspiring writer, waiting for the big inspo to hit you in the head one day with a baseball bat. Low waist jeans suit you, and the most protuberant sensation in your existence is hunger. No, not for knowledge or women, that’s thirst. I mean the literal hunger of a poor philosophy student, a feeling which seems to never go away no matter how drunk you are.

There are some long term objectives here and there, but they’re not clearly shaped out. Don’t fit into the crowd of puppets and reject tradition is what you’re somewhat striving for. The system must fall for sure, but there is time for politics and time to drink vodka and complain, and between those two, you’ve already made your choice. Besides, there will be others to take the reins of revolution. You’ll just have to follow the outcasts and everything will be fine. Time is nothing but your humble servant.

Last summer you discover the best place on Earth. The Zone has opened its large, illegal arms to you. By the time you return _there_ again, there’s this wonderful girl that has popped up in your life. She doesn’t remember your brief encounter from a year ago.

For better or worse, you have two friends. One of them is Farlan, a tall lanky blonde, who is studying some graphic fine art shit, and Isabel, who is still in high school, your one and only disciple. They are kind and grateful to ride by your side. Also, the alcoholic uncle is no longer a problem. The life you’ve lead so far hasn’t been exactly the dream, but you’ve managed to get by.

The environment in which you’ve grown up shaped you for hardships. Kenny has advised you to choose a future fit for the sturdy, silent type you could become. Military could provide you a steady income, and the sound of the bullets flying will drown out the PTSD. The world is expecting you to end up a handsome, mysterious soldier with basic morals. A side-character in this war.

So naturally, you decide to spit in everyone’s face and join the Shinganshina Philosophy University. A calculated decision you haven’t paid the price for yet. Nobody will decide your future but your own sorry self…

~ Many years ago, _There_ ~

I couldn’t stress how much the door to my room needed to be replaced. It wouldn’t survive another slam before it collapsed. The weather was atrociously hot, fit for the summer, and a slight sheen of sweat permanently stayed on my skin. But on the brighter side, guess who had just got his hands on a counterfeit pair of Ray ban sunglasses? That’s right, this lucky fucker. Locking the door, I shoved the keys into my pocket and pushed my hair back, relieved that it stayed out of my eyes for once. It was time to crawl out from my lair.

Heavy steps paced the rosy tiles of the front yard. The landlady of the summer house, Miss Rose, was currently playing bridge with her two best friends, Maria and Sina. These old women, wearing home gowns and hair rollers, reminded me of the witches from Macbeth. Flo, Vi and Ru scanned my presence as I halted in front of them, perhaps wanting to spin the thread of my fate too.

“I’m heading out, Aunt Rosie.” I announced and leaned down to press a quick peck to her graying hair, inhaling the raging smell of caffeine and cherry with subtle nuances of cheap lady perfume.

“Okay! But if you come back at the crack of dawn again, you’ll have to jump the fence! I lock the gate at 1 in the morning.” She whispered back, too engulfed in the game.

“I think I can handle some acrobatics, lady.” And with a pat on her back, I walk to open the afore mentioned wrought iron gate.

But as this charming antihero drifted down the side street, Rose yelled behind me:

“Tell your lady friend I said hi!”

My teeth greeted and my postured slouched forward as I heard the other devils snickering behind me.

Their ironic glances were getting on my nerves. Where the hell was Farlan when I needed him? I called that fucker a few days ago, asking him why he hadn’t showed up _there_ yet, at which he had the audacity to answer that a pipe in his dorm room exploded and the room above us was flooded. Like the good boy that he was, Farlan offered to stay behind and fix the mess. Using his money, of course, because the admins were as useful as a pile of horseshit left in the sun.

But he promised to get _there_ as soon as possible, so I didn’t worry too much about it. Farlan was a big boy after all. My only wish was to bring Isabel with him too.

I kicked a stone and watched as it landed a few feet away on the dusty road. Shoving my hands in those tight jean pockets, the way to the diner seemed longer in the summer heat. Though, it provided some time to think about an equation that had been sitting on my mind those past few days.

I was currently nineteen, verging on twenty.

By my estimations, I needed to have a kid and settle down by the age of 35.

This meant I had to get married around the time I would be 30-33 years old.

Subtracting from that, and adding the requirement of a stable relationship first, at around 26 years of age, the (un)lucky girl would show up in my life.

26-19= 7

7 years

7 more years to live before my life would spiral downwards. 7 more years to drink my ass off, shove my tongue down women’s throat and skinny dip at sunrise while Sex Pistols echoed on the shore. It seemed like such a short time span. There were still so many things to do, sunrises to see and hangovers to bear. 7 Years were not enough.

My hurried steps carried me further to the fancy (not) diner of the Zone. It was designed to imitate those types of restaurants you saw in American movies, but if there was one thing that described our nation, it would be _patchworking_.

Meaning that the place was a mix between an aspiring dream and cheap available materials, that resulted in a blinding kitsch-like picture, with neon colors and paper ornaments. At least they served good food.

As I reached the desired destination, the sheer force required to open the heavy wooden door was applaudable and…

Goddamn,

I literally feel through the screen the hurry in which you’ve read those lines. You just want to get to the point, right? Where the action finally starts and you find out why I was visiting this peculiar restaurant.

To which, I respond,

Why the rush?

You already know who I’m meeting there.

Anyway…

I admired the aspiring avant-garde paintings on the wall as I headed for the sit-down counter. On the far left, there was the customary jukebox you see in all American diners, stained with milkshake and out of service. On the left side, a darts game hanged, but with the photo of the Colossal Titan Leader as the target. Grown ass men played it every night with iridescent passion, believing, in their child-like foolishness, than poking a photo with small arrow would get them the well-deserved revenge on the system.

The place was deserted, because most of the customers either came around evening or at the first hour in the morning, straight from some wild parties, to eat greasy sandwiches before passing out on the shore from the sedative effects of the alcohol.

The only other people present were a sleazy middle aged man trying to look like John Lennon, who was sitting at the red-cushioned booths, a waitress no older than 17, clad in those pale pink uniforms, wiping down the tables, and the manager, that looked like he hadn’t had a proper nap since the day he came out of his mother’s womb. Deep sunken brown eyes followed the girl’s every move, and I mentally cringed at how painfully obvious his crush on her was.

I took a seat on one of those taller chairs, elbows on the table and resting my head on my forearms. Closing my eyes, the faint buzz of the water boiling, sizzling meat and light footsteps could lull me to sleep.

“What can I get you, hot stuff?” The quiet voice of the young waitress filled the room. She had learned my habits already.

“Some tea would be nice. But make it cold or iced.” I gruesomely muttered, not even raising my eyes to look at her, but she must be behind the counter, preparing the water and setting down a mug in front of me.

“uuuu….” The girl hummed. “Do you drink tea in the summer, like the Russians?”

“Just trying to replace the unhealthy amount of coffee. I’ve started looking like a dry raisin.” I vaguely answered.

“You’re in luck then. I just received those tea bags from UK, imported. Foreign sailors brought them. It’s apparently good shit.” She declared with such pride, as if she snatched the leaves herself and swam with them in her mouth all the way from England.

“What’s it called?”  
“Shamamilyn… “ The waitress tried to read the yellow paper package.

What the hell? I straighten my posture just so I can gesture to her to bring it to me.  
“Let me see that, will you?” And as I grabbed the box, my eyebrows raised in indignation? Surprise? Disappointment? before I threw it back to her.

“That’s fucking chamomile tea.”

“Oh really?”  
“English not your forte?”  
“Nothing is my forte, really.” She looked to the side, brushing the dark brown hair of her loose ponytail. I still insisted to have something to drink, so this girl poured me a cup before grabbing a cigarette from her skirt pocket. To my utter horror, it looked like someone was in the mood for a conversation. And not who I was hoping to.

“ So, you waiting on somebody?” She asked in an ironic tone, teasing the hell out of me, as if the answer wasn’t already obvious. Let me tell you this, that girl may look stupid and airheaded, but the information she possessed on the clientele was so vast it could fill the lost library of Alexandria. Prey birds were definitely jealous of her keen eyes.

“Of course not. I just happen to drop by around the same time this girl usually comes up for an afternoon snack. Nothing shady here. Not in the slightest.”

“Mmmhhm. I like where this is going. Tell me all about it.”

“I ain’t telling you shit, girly.”

“Aww, come on man. Don’t say stuff like that then leave me hanging.”

“But I like teasing too.” I muttered in a low tone with an unapologetical raise of my shoulders.  
“Well, I don’t. and I’m sure as hell Rhea doesn’t like it either.”

Busted. How did she figured it out? Did Rhea make fun of me with this girl?

But I let the conversation drop. Gazing at the window, waiting for the arrival of my muse, I played with the stress ring on my middle finger, twisting the silver hooks . The place fell quiet for a while, aside from the soft sounds of the manager swooping the floor, and I felt like I was in a surreal French movie, where the anticipation of a miracle yet to happen shaped the entire frame.

“You in love with this girl or something?”

Damn this fucking noisy waitress filling up her boring life with my drama. I sighed and rested my head on my palm, eyes dangerously shifting from the window to her scrawny form.

“Completely whipped. But I pretend not to know it.”

“Why’s that?”

“Why am I in denial?”  
“No silly. Why are you so enamored?”

I took a deep breath and thought that I might as well find solace in a gossiping young girl. Some loved drama like that.

“We have so many things in common. “ I began. “Our conversations last for hours, yet I never find myself getting bored with it. There’s such a great variety of subjects to talk about with her, only to find out we like the same writers and songs, our taste in drinks and politics is similar, and we both agree that writing is a valid career.

You see…all my life I’ve imagined I’ll settle on some bland, taller than me girl, whom I have nothing to talk about but would accept my weird habits nonetheless. We will be good at finances and that would be it.

It’s all about compromises when the Zone closes down and we get back into the real world, isn’t it? But now…I don’t know…I don’t want to make a fool out of myself with dumb illusions. Maybe hope is something I don’t deserve yet.”  
She snickered at me and I frowned at my own reckless display of vulnerability in front of stranger.

“Silly ass boy. Just because a girl likes the same weird shit you do, doesn’t mean you’re soul mates! Let me demonstrate. For example, both I and Keith like The Rolling Stones, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna marry him!” The young waitress exclaimed, and in the corner of my eye, I could see the manager jumping out of his skin while a blush crept on his features.  
“Karla, stop harassing the clients and get back to work!” He yelled in annoyance.

“Give me a break, old man. I don’t earn enough to care.” This afore mentioned Karla shouted back over the counter.

This is the last summer you’re gonna see me anyway.” She leaned down to whisper to me. “After I turn eighteen and graduate high school, I’ll never have to set foot in this lousy place again, because…”

“That man won’t marry you, Karla.” Keith declared with raging hot jealousy, loud enough for us to hear.

“Nonsense!” She yelled back “He said he would wait for me until I’m legal. We’ll get married in a year from now and I’ll be settled for the rest of my life then. Goodbye to cleaning puke in the bathroom and dealing with drunk perverts! Just imagine! Me, the wife of a doctor! ”  
“You really are stupid if you think he’s gonna choose an affair with a schoolgirl over his actual wife and kid.”

“Shut up, boss, he promised a ring on my finger. Besides, I’ll make such a better Mrs. Jaeger than that blonde bland bitch. Grisha only has eyes for me. I’ll never be hungry again Shadis!” The girl declared with pride.

“Suit yourself, but don’t come crying back to me when he throws you away.”

“He won’t…he won’t.” Karla declared, like a prayer to herself.

“Don’t mind him.” She added, referring to Keith. “ He’s just mad because he can’t compete to a rich, young doctor.”

“I’d worry more about your own ass. Seems to me like you’re in a delicate situation.” I replied, sipping on my tea, half interested in this local soap opera.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m a big girl. I can handle it.” Karla replied with a smile, just as the doorbell clincked, announcing someone walked in. I turned around to acknowledge this fresh participant, and the air suddenly didn’t feel like leaving my poor lungs anymore.

“Uh-oh, look who’s here. Well, I’ll leave you two alone. There’s work to pretend I’m doing.” The waitress declared in a low tone as she took a step back. What she didn’t consider was that she was speaking to deaf ears. I had other things to pay attention to.

As a writer, the biggest inconvenience for me was when Rhea stepped into the setting. With each appearance, the description of her entrance must become more elaborate, different, each time original. The author wanted to evoke in you the same feeling of surprise he felt, but I too, ran out of ideas pretty quick. I didn’t want to bore my readers with the same phrase of ‘ a cheeky demon descended from her throne to check up on her mortal love interest’, but that was the closest thing to reality that I could muster. Golden light behind her, floating footsteps and everything.

For example, today she was adorned in a long, shapeless white dress, usually worn under our country national costume, with small flowers spread on top of the cotton (literally _on top,_ as if the petals were somehow floating 1 cm above the material). The chords from a walk-man languorously hanged from her ears , two thin plastic snakes losing themselves in the cloth of the dress; this technological detail blending in so contrastingly with the traditional robes, that it made you wonder if not all our ancestors actually wore walk-mans strapped to their waist, from the dark nights of history and up until that moment.

For a moment, I thought with horror that she could very well choose to sit over there, at the red booths, considering that she had no obligations to sit at the counter just because I was there, and all of my efforts would’ve been in vain. I’d see her far away from my spot; we’d lock eyes, from time to time, exchange a formal ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’ , and then she’d be off doing god-knows whatever mischief, evaporating from the real world, leaving me to boil in my own desire.

“Hey there Levi!” A melodious voice broke my stream of thoughts, as Rhea threw her ass into one of the tall chairs next to mine.

I couldn’t believe how lucky I was sometimes.

“Hello princess.” My reply came in late, as I stopped to light up a Marlboro. Our eyes didn’t met yet, as I was afraid Rhea’s sheer aura would blind me so hard I’d forget any stream of thoughts.

“What a surprise to see you here today. And yesterday. And the day before.” As she leaned closer to my profile with a teasing voice, I knew that if I turned my head there’d be a subtle closed-mouth smile on her doll face.

“Care to explain this series of pleasant coincidences?” Rhea added.

“I really, really don’t.” My head automatically turned away. True, the answer didn’t satisfy anyone, but I really wasn’t in the mood for a fight where I would surely lose. Embarrassment didn’t sit well with me. What could I say? ‘ Spending time with you is like some medicine for me, but there’s no way I can actually go to you and demand your companionship, so I wait for you in this diner where you usually get your lunch, letting Fate decide how we gonna go.’

Nah, that’s lame. Better endure the atrocious summer heat and the local staff drama.

“Suit yourself, young writer.” The girl chuckled, resting her chin in her palm. After a long pause where neither of us spoke, she asked the young waitress for a coffee and two complicatedly named sandwiches.

I knew there wouldn’t be long until she was gone, but it didn’t matter. The shortness of her visit was compensated by lazy clock tickings, clouds stopping in their place and steam from my mug raising unnaturaly slow.

Karla brought the steaming cup of coffee and placed it on the counter. The fain sound of her slurping the drink filled the otherwise silent room. Rhea swinged left and right, impatient in the bar stool, waiting for me to take the lead.

Of our conversation, of course.

What were you thinking, you perverted morons?

But alas, I liked the dynamic between us. We could talk about the most diverse topics for hours, and for once, I was not bored with someone. The Garrisons were not lying when they said she was very opionated. If I spoke about two different ideas in the same sentence, she would reply to both of them separately . And goddamn, each time she did that I genuinely consider moving _there_ permanently. No one, ever, showed me this much interest. It was either being ignored or turning your back when the words suddenly weren’t so nice.

And, for the cavemen out there claiming that love passed through the stomach, I beg to differ. It passes straight through your attention whorish ego.

With each rhetoric, smart answer I gave to her sweet, genuine gestures, I felt like I was in that Rene Magritte painting, the Art of Conversation, so much that I felt utterly resentful when I looked down at our feet and didn’t saw ourselves drifting away in the sky.

A week. A week had passed since we’ve been running into each other, since I’d been holding myself back, since there was something I was eager yet afraid to taste. An energy out there, felt whenever our hands brushed randomly, or our eyes lingered into the other without any shame.

I called it the unripen fruit of our love.

Not good enough to be consumed yet, but you just couldn’t wait for the right time to sink your teeth in.

I’d let it grow in its time, and meanwhile, there was life happening, music and dancing, great stories and mythical adventures to enjoy.

“The Survey Corps magazine hasn’t publish anything great since that story I showed you.” Rhea broke the silence, running her index along the edge of the cup.

“You still thinking about that silly old story?” I sighed and put out my cigarette in a seashell-shaped ashtray. “What are you, fifteen, Rhea? Only teens are so easy to impress with an ounce of interpretation...”

“So what are you saying, Levi? That nothing impresses you anymore?”

“Oh, certain things still do. But they have to be pretty amazing. I like choosing my battles.”

Much to my relief, she didn’t realize I was talking about her.

We sat there for a while until our drinks were lukewarm. From time to time, Rhea stole one of my cigarettes, while the curious eyes of the waitress were watching us with interest.

My new friend talked about her day. It stroke me how unusual it was for a person to have so much energy, but Rhea managed to juggle taking care of the old commander, sharing a dorm-like bedroom with three other girls, playing more than five instruments…

“ How about I settle this once and for all? With the prisoner and all that… _Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to understand them_.” I began, leaning back and resting one elbow on the chair’s low back support.

 _“Try to love the questions themselves then, like you love locked rooms and books that are now written in a very foreign tongue_. _”_ She continued my quote with a sigh, melancholically looking through me, out on the window.

…And also reading everything I recommended.

“So, I take it you enjoyed Rilke.” I said, glad to be on the same side once again.

“Can’t you tell? I like every book you lend me. Why didn’t you come _here_ sooner?” She wondered, slamming her forearms on the table. “You’ve let me suffer all this time with mediocre literature...”

I didn’t know there could be so much blood filling my anemic cheeks.

“Don’t worry, princess. Even with second-rate readings you’d still manage to outshine three quarters of Paradis’ population.”

“I don’t believe you…”  
“Well, you should. No reason to be a Doubting Thomas.”

Rhea then continued to talk all over the place, her speech following a natural pattern , an understandable chaos, not too loud, not too bland, not at all overwhelmingly. And the best part was, it came natural for her to express herself and for me to listen. I’d met people whose sheer enthusiasm embodied grotesque forms, with limbs uncoordinatedly flying all over the place, sweat spots forming on their armpits, and spit raining in my direction. And all of that passion because of the most boring, mundane, disturbing things ever.

Those type of people scared me.

But that wasn’t the case there.

She asked me about what I’ve been writing. No answer came easy, out of shame perhaps? The struggle was still there, to write something out of place, never seen before, a piece that would finally put those journalist from the Survey Corps in their place, instead of reformulating ideas of the Greeks, French and the Germans.

I looked at my almost empty cup of tea, which stood next to Rhea’s full one. A satisfied smiled made its way into the corner of my visual field, as she listened to my half-hearted ramblings about literary critique, German deontology and why Visconti choose to make out a great film based off Thomas Mann’s novel.

And yes, this girl had a thing for me. Even a blind person could see it. I didn’t fail to notice how she stared at me, her blush when I would say something nice to her, or how she let me talk about anything I wanted. I loved it to the core.

Rhea was a dream, a fever, the kind of figure writers met once in their lives and pushed them to the start of something great.

But unfortunately, there was no diamond in the rough for her to shape. There was only me, Levi, a brute who had never managed once in his life to write something original.

I stared again at those cups side by side, then at Rhea. Back at the cups. Back at her. And so on and so on, back and forth until the empty cup became a representation of my mental state. I was truly a dried up well. And a dried up well didn’t have anything to offer. A sad certainty swallowed me whole, that even if inspiration hit me in the head one day, I wouldn’t be able to make something out of it. Because I was deserted, void of use and purpose. Like that stupid cup.

Maybe there were so many people out there, who, like me, felt useless, bare of money, talent and emotional stability. We hoped, in silence, of not doing the dirty work ourselves, because we couldn’t see any light at the end of the tunnel to make it worth the effort.

But there were also others, the ones life had blessed with brimful cups, who would never choose to share their fulfillment with us, no matter how much we’d wish for them to come and help . Why would they, anyway? They worked hard to fill their own lives, faced hardships and came out winners, handled many struggle. Or maybe they were just born lucky and abused the privilege of looking down at us.

But in the end, you just had to live with it.

That no one would come and save you.

That you were responsible for the state that you’re in and no one in their right mind had time to pull your sorry ass out of the gutter.

That happy, healthy people, like Rhea, preferred happy, healthy people.

That no one was patient enough to fill your cup with theirs.

A full cup wanted a full cup.

And the idea went on, about human misery, lacking substance, about the life that drained out of my mug while I stood by, unable to do anything about it.

Until Rhea leaned in to play with the handle of her coffee, wheels spinning in her head. I watched her every movement, as…

The clocks stopped working,

The lousy staff suddenly evaporated,

Heavenly gates opened, as muses started to play ancient songs,

Our chairs started to float slightly above the ground,

Her whole body glowed like the moon and blinded me

And, you guessed it,

She poured her drink right over mine, until it almost overflowed.

And I didn’t care the mix between coffee and tea would certainly be gross. Or that some drops spilled on the counter. I watched mesmerized as the dark liquid run its natural, gravitational course over my share.

Someone filled my cup. And not anyone, it was her who did it.

Without me having to ask for it. Because God knew I didn’t expect her to be my savior. That was not her role in my story. It wasn’t her job nor did I want to be some damsel in distress.

Yet she did it anyway. A high-pitched voice rang in my head, heavy and powerful like some magnificent bells of a Catholic church:

_She filled your cup._

_She filled your cup._

_She filled your cup._

_She filled your cup._

_She filled your cup._

_“_ Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost…” Rhea asked, but her voice was nothing more but a faint echo, vague and distant as my poor brain had to process a miracle happening right before my eyes.

“Why did you do that, Rhea?”

“Oh, well, you look like you need it more than I do. There’s nothing a cup of coffee can’t fix, right? Hehe.”

“But I had tea in there…”

“Oh my god! I didn’t know! Sorry, I probably ruined it for you!”

“No, no, on the contrary. Please don’t apologize.”

But I dissociated from that place long ago. The drafts started to take shape in my mind. Did the Greeks, the French or the Germans have something similar to my idea with the empty cups? Would I sit down at my fragile desk, typing for hours on end, about what happened today, only to find out others had written about the same thing? Or was this, for once in my life, something only I had thought about, an _original_ idea my abused brain finally mustered after years of struggle?

_And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, you will gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer._

Well, only one way to find out.

“I have to go.” I declared with sudden zest as I rushed to get out of this place, almost knocking the chair over.

“Wait, are you off so soon?” Rhea asked, her eyebrows raising up in a sad expression, her disappointment most evident.

“Yeah, I’ve got some things to take care of. Can you pay for the drinks? I’ll be forever in your debt.”

“Sure, but is everything fine?”

“More than fine.” I replied as I already made my way out from the diner. Karla watched my every step with a hand on her hip, while the manager tried to awkwardly move closer in her personal space.

But there was one more thing I had to do. Turning around, I ran back to the front table where Rhea was still sitting at. Grabbing both her hands into one of my own, I pressed a humble, grateful kiss onto the back of them.

“Thank you, Rhea. For everything.” I exhaled into that warm, soft skin, the skin of an angel, perhaps.

But she wouldn’t like to be compared to an overzealous, pure deity.

So let’s replace that with the skin of a liberated demon.

“But I haven’t done anything, Levi.” And her voice was only a whisper.

“Oh, you’ve done more than enough. I’ll see you tonight.”

Not a question. Not a plead. Nor a promise. But a naturally stated truth. As if I had said the sun was going to rise tomorrow.

The only time I had ever run faster in my life, was when the cops were chasing me for peeing on Titan propaganda posters. I took a sideway route, ditching the main, paved road full of people, shops and restaurants, and instead embracing the hot, burning sand of the beach.

The sun roasted the top of my head, and in its great shining, the biggest star in our system whispered down on me: “Here I stand, Levi, not as a symbol of hope, but as hope itself, because as long as you got legs to walk this Earth and eyes to see me perched up on the blue sky, nothing is yet lost to you.”

My tortured lungs demanded a break, and a violent, refreshing summer breeze cooled down the sweat running on the back of my neck. With each jump I took over sandcastles, the sensation of floating became more and more prominent. If I raised my hands even for a little, I was sure there would be soft, cotton clouds running through my fingers.

This was life. This was the pace of freedom.

And then, all of a sudden, it happened.

An inevitable crash.

The collision was powerful. Pain shoot up my left side, and the beautiful scenery of the seashore turned into pitch black. I stood there, for a moment, unable to get up, groaning at the discomfort. Minutes had passed, or maybe an eternity, before my eyes shot open. Cold, damp earth dominated my vision. I saw plant roots and scared insects before my brain processed what happened.

I fell down in a pit.

And not just any pit.

Brushing the sand off my clothes, I got up to analyze the situation. A long passage was dug up at the edge of the beach, around two meters deep. Bracing both hands on the surface, I pushed my body up until I could get out. Weight lifting finally paid off.

Back on the sand, I followed the path of the underground labyrinth. The open tunnel went on and on, well into the horizon, until it ended, a few kilometers away, at the mighty walls guarding Paradis. To my left, a rusty, abandoned lighthouse dominated the scenery. Some houses and cars were located far away, closer to the perpetual buzzing, as shy weeds discovered their freedom on this empty beach. I stared down at the hole in the ground once again, thinking how irresponsible it was to leave it open like that, when anyone drunk or walking at night could injure themselves because of it. Someone foreign could mistake it with the trench soldiers sat in during wars.

Except it wasn’t.

What I fell down in was, undoubtedly, the foundation of the walls that should have been there if not for our Government (blessed) incompetence. There stood, like a grave, a grim reminder that the Titans still had a godly amount of power over us, and it was only by chance we were allowed to have _this place._

And once the summer ended, I’d have to go back to the grey, concrete cellar.

Kicking some innocent pebbles, I left the gruesome proof of my prison behind. ‘Baby steps, Levi’ I remember telling myself. First literature, then fighting. The war was not yet lost.

So I made my way back to my room, limping but full of hope, excited for my own selfish accomplishments.

I had shit to write down.

~*~

The sun settled down in a hurry, but I didn’t notice shit until it was dark outside and there was no lighting allowing me to read. Rising my nose from a thick book about Roman deontology, I felt the sudden urge to go out and let the loud music and good drinks wash over my overly heated brain.

My room had become a total mess. I started to put dozen of books back on the shelves and throw crumpled pieces of paper in the trash. The minute I got back home, I ravaged my (I liked to consider) vast collection of literature, searching if others before me wrote about filling someone else’s empty glass. So far, the results showed up empty, which meant that as soon as my evening rendezvous with Rhea was over, I had all night to write a small anecdote on my rusty typewriter.

Now, I knew for a fact that my idea wasn’t something groundbreaking, genius, extraordinary blahblah But let me have my pride for once. My tree of knowledge finally decided to bear its first fruit.

I brushed my teeth in hurry, laced up leather boots and put on my spare jacket. Rhea still had my other one, from the night when we first met, and I didn’t have the chance to ask for it back.

Well, I did, but it completely slipped my mind each time she opened her round mouth to talk about religion, love theories, or Southern American literature.

Outside, the street lights and faint sounds of music casted an aura of a national holiday. I ditched the shortcut and instead took the main road. Downtown, taverns, open bars, clubs with live music and small businesses greeted you. Strangers, some more sober than others, sang out loud boisterous songs, artists on the side of the road offered to paint your portrait in exchange for some beers, young and old couples danced on the street to some ‘Baila Morena’. It was a beautiful display of hedonism.

I scanned the crowd and mixed with the crazies for about an hour. Rhea was supposed to see me tonight, but this stupid fuck right here forgot to settle a time or a place. So off my search went, hands in my pockets, thinking I had a hard task at hand.

What if we passed each other and never noticed?

What if she wouldn’t show up for another two hours?

What if she ditched me?

No. Scratch that. I knew Rhea was out there in the crowd, dancing or singing somewhere. Her presence tonight was given, like you’re certain of grass growing and cold November rains.

But even if I were wrong and my search was wasted time, I would get over it quickly, with no fight or argument. Like an obedient dog accepting a misfortune. It was hard to stay mad at her anyway, with all the chaos happening between us: me seeking inspiration, her trying to build her club and others trying to disrupt our bubble.

I found Rhea ten minutes later, doing tequila shots at an improvised bar, with a large group of strangers. She wore my leather jacket paired with a long tartan skirt, which surprisingly suited her. I never thought I’d appreciate something else other than miniskirts on a woman, blame my stupid dick for that, but there was room for improvement, for sure. Her back was turned, but I counted one, two, three shots she downed without a flinch. Men and women clapped her back as they cheered like pagan worshippers around a sacrifice.

But she must’ve felt my eyes on her, because Rhea turned around, and, from a fake alcohol-induced enjoyment, her features lit up in surprise when she noticed me standing out there . I saw how she bit her lip, futilely trying to hold back an ear-to-ear smile.

“You sure took your sweet time, Levi!” She ended in a laughing manner, her speech not at all slurred. Leaving the pack of monkeys back at the bar, my newest companion joined me and we started to stroll on the busy streets.

“Good evening to you too, Rhea.”

“And it’s only going to get better!”

“Won’t you say goodbye to your friends, then?”  
“Pff, those stupid fucks?” She rolled her eyes and gestured back at the group. “They’ll be fine. I didn’t like them anyway. One second they claimed to be professional musicians, but the second I asked them to choose between Verdi and Mozart, they scrunched up their noses and claimed they don’t listen to old people music. Can you believe that?”

“Uhh…what a capital sin…completely unforgivable.” I smirked ironically.

“Right? I suggested to do shots just so I can make them shut up. Like, I get it, you like Metallica, but how can you not appreciate something that continues to impress people hundreds of years later? If they were mediocre, no one would still talk about Mozart, Chopin or Strauss today.”

“What about you?” I asked, as our steps fell in tandem, carrying us further from the ongoing street party.

“What about me?”

“Which one do you prefer between Verdi and Mozart?”

“Oh well…” She paused, placing a strand of hair behind her ear. “ Verdi clearly excels in the opera genre, but I like Mozart more. There’s a long line of classical composers, all who lead wealthy, rigid lives and behaved with utmost perfection. And then there’s a silly boy from Austria, who disobeyed orders, had fun all his life, spat in the face of critics and managed to be the best. ”

Rhea then carried on, giving me a brief summary of Mozart’ life while hugging my jacket closer to her body. I listened, astounded, how hard it was to play Rondo Alla Turca while drunk. In no time, we were already walking on the beach, close to each other, soft sand and cigarette butts beneath our feet.

“I think we can learn one thing or two from this. That you’ll achieve great things as long as you are true to yourself.”

“Yeah, most certainly.” She replied, tilting her head back to stare at the billions of stars gazing down at us. I admire them too, seeing as the pollution inside the big cities hid their gorgeous shine. The night sky in the Zone was a sight to behold, it felt cruel that I got to enjoy it only for three months a year.

“Why did you leave me earlier today?” Rhea asked in an accusatory tone.

“I’m so sorry. Don’t put it like that, please. I wanted to write down something.”

“Couldn’t it wait for when you got back home?”

“I was afraid of losing the idea. But I’ve got something to make up for it.”

“Oh, my, shoot your shot, then.”

“I’m writing about you. Well , to be more accurate, about something you did.”  
“Oh my god, are you serious? No one has ever written about me before!”

“You’re joking. Any writer would be stupid not to.”

I heard her sharp gasp and didn’t miss her flustered expression, even in the faint moonlight.

“I’ll show it to you the second it’s done.” I continued.

“What is it? A poem, perhaps?” Rhea asked with utmost curiosity, like a child wondering what they’d find under the Christmas tree.

“Ahh, no, not really. More like an anecdote. Poetry is really not my forte.” I declared, rubbing the back of my head in embarrassment.  
“Why is that?”

That stupid sad pout she did was so devilishly cute, that I got a brain freeze just by looking at it.

“It never came easy to me. Poets can write in four lines what I try to express in a page and a half. And make it rhyme, on top of it. That’s too much for my power.”  
“Such a shame. If you write a poem, I can come up with a tune and make a great song.”

“And create the next Magic Flute?”

“I’m not trying to become the next Mozart, Levi. I wanna make my own way into this world.”

“Well, give me some time, and maybe one day I’ll come up with a poem just for you. Don’t lose your hope yet.” I mimicked a smirk. But as we went on talking, I became familiar with the surroundings. Ruins of sandcastles, a lighthouse to the left, the memory resurfaced to my brain.

We were near that stupid ravine again.

I wasn’t a fool to fall for the same trick twice, but do you know who was?

This girl. That didn’t notice the pit and was walking straight to it.

So, without thinking even, I took a large step forward, propping each leg on both sides of the dug tunnel. Steading myself, I heard Rhea’s speech halting as she met her inevitable plunge.

Lucky for her, I was there to catch her right on time before she hurt herself.

It all happened so soon. One moment we were talking, the next I had Rhea in a safe embrace, my arms fiercely pressed around her middle, preventing her fall into the ravine.

Our faces were so close, gorgeous eyes staring into dull ones as her legs slightly dangled without any steady ground beneath them. For the longest time, we sat in silence, neither of us wanting to break the embrace. There was no running away this time, from her cheeky visage, smudged make-up and tender expression. Maybe she wouldn’t like the way her lipstick spread further than the corners of her mouth, or how faint dark circles began to show. But I absolutely adored it.

I felt like I was holding life itself, the joy of being, human nature in its most unhinged form.

Over my short lifespan, I’d heard many love stories. Both fictional, as well as real ones, told by neighbors, classmates or relatives.

I noticed one persistent motive in all of them. Usually, after years of emotional detachment and fear of intimacy, some poor individual stepped into the picture and pushed a button inside the heart of the main character. And from then, a great explosion happened, like a big bang of purpose in their otherwise boring lives.

But I thought that was all a pile of bullcrap. I still do.

Yes, falling in love was like a bomb. Except you were the one holding the machine that set it off. The big, red button lay in your own, stupid hands. In the end, the detonation happened out of your own sheer will. The explosion had been yours all along.. Of course, others could give you solid reasons to do it.

But Rhea gave me more than enough.

I had no reason to stop.

We leaned in at the same time.

So I pressed the button. And the bomb went off with a boom.

Our kiss was everything poets, philosophers and artists had dreamed about and more. We were tired of pretending not to feel something for the other.

Rhea didn’t hold back. She hugged me with desperation, digging her nails into my shoulders, clinging to me like I was her lifeline.

‘Don’t let go!’ Her soft moans seemed to say.

‘Never’ My own guttural groan responded.

Arms wrapped around her form even tighter. If I loosen my grip, she would’ve fallen into the pit. Into the ravine Titans had dug, where walls should’ve stood, robbing us of our freedom. Of this moment. No. I would never let go. They would never get their filthy hands on Rhea, even if I had to hold her above the ground until my legs went numb.

There was a way.

I could save her, from the unforgiving crash and the murky ground below.

I was strong enough, for once, to keep the Titans away from something I cherished. Even if it was in a metaphorical way of speech.

The sensation lingered. We conquered the whole world.

I felt the stingy taste of alcohol on her lips as she kissed me back almost instantly. We went at it for a while, slowly, unpredictably, throwing our mutual attraction back and forth on our hungry mouths.

And all of that, a passionate kiss between two headless young adults, right above the Titan’s walls foundation. With no words, I told her everything I needed to. The kiss was turning sloppy, and I never thought I’d enjoy this kind of primal lust, with spit in the corners of her lips and deep grunts escaping my throat .

But there was a first for everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave suggestions in the comments, no matter how mean! I can handle almost everything, and the opinion of my readers matters to me enormously. I wanna hear what are you thinking, where do you think this story is headed to, which characters you love, if the metaphors are too much or simply if you enjoy my work! Any review or kudo brightens my day!   
> Kisses.


	15. Eren: Brave New World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm Alive!!!! yayy!  
> Omg this chapter has like...actual plot...something is happening? yES!!!!  
> VERY BIG IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER AND WARNING: this chapter is a little bit...political!!!! however, you should know that this is fiction. WIth the global issues around the world, in SUA and in Europe and not only, please don't interpret this as a comment on what's going on today regarding this messy situation. What is presented here is purely concerning the situation in the story! In no way is this chapter addressing an issue in the real world. There are authorized and competent people out there who do that on a daily basis! So please, do not take what's going on here personally. I hope I don't cause any major problems! I just write a fanfic, I'm not a political activist.

_Eren_

It is late December already, so any day from now the winter break should start. The uncertainty lies in the fact that the school is majorly underprepared in case of a snow fall. If the area suddenly becomes inaccessible to the students, the town hall, local executive council and superintends will all give them a ‘ who cares? Winter break is coming anyway, let’s just go home’, and so their schooling is once again a roll of dice.

Does Eren mind? So and so. On one hand, not seeing those morons he has to deal with every day is certainly a blessing; on the other hand, being stuck for three weeks with his parents is an equally painful punishment. He’s sure that if it weren’t for Mikasa, he would’ve slammed his head against the wall until he’d pass out. It’s just his luck she knows how to keep him busy.

Currently, Eren is enjoying one of those Saturday mornings, when he manages to actually see his father and even make some conversation. They are sitting in the living room, together with Karla that is ironing some clothes and paying attention to some sappy history drama on the TV. Right now the parents sit comfortably in silence, while their child is eyeing Grisha from head to toe, glancing at how he oozes authority with that newspaper he always seem to read.

It’s not like Mr. Jaeger has been a bad father to him. The boy vividly remembers happy childhood memories, like riding merry go rounds together and drinking Pepsi on hot summer nights. Grisha is also yelling considerably less than his mother in general. He’s still not over the fact that Eren won’t become a doctor like him, but other than that, they have semi-functional father-son relationship.

His father is also a smart man, that’s the problem. The vast library they own only proves it further, with its books raging on all kinds of different subject, from anatomy, to war history, to Japanese and German dictionaries. And so, Eren stares at their collection and taps his foot impatiently. On the outside, he looks calm, or at least stable. But the boy sometimes wants nothing more than to get up on his feet and scream at Mr. Jaeger:

‘ Dad, what good did all those reading do to you?

What purpose does all your knowledge serve, if you didn’t have the guts to become more than an average person?

What’s the use of knowing all about the Ottoman wars, or South American literature, when in the end you still ended up in a hellhole like Shingashina, surrounded by dumb nurses and idiot doctors whose only source of information is some cheap gossip?’

All his life, Mr. Jaegar stayed in the same small town, travelled to the same touristic destinations like everybody else, never excelled in anything, not even in his field.

For that, Eren can’t fully respect his dad. Mr. Jaeger could have made it big, perhaps as a great surgeon, or an enthusiastic diplomat, but instead there he is, in a middle-class living room, worrying about winter tires.

The boy is impatiently waiting for his sister to get ready. His gaze shifts between his parents, who, like most of the time, have nothing to say to each other unless it’s about the children. His mother is very beautiful and nurturing, but Grisha barely acknowledges her presence around the house unless it’s her birthday or their anniversary. And every time Karla scolds him for being a half-dead person, he shows up the next day with some tulips, her favorites, and she has no choice but to forgive him. ‘For your sake, children’, his mother would always say.

There goes the saying, that for every beautiful woman out there, there’s a man who’s tired of looking at her. Eren scoffs and swears for the billionth time to not end up like those poor people. He stares absent mindedly at the wall full of pictures, imagining a future where he and Mikasa listen to Nancy Sinatra on the patio of their summer house, stuffing their faces with croissants and expensive champagne for breakfast.

The door to their bedroom opens and closes, signaling that his sister is good to go. Eren jumps out of the green velvet armchair, trailing behind her.

“What the hell took you so long, Mika?” He grunts, under his breath, in an annoyed whisper.

“I couldn’t find my earphones, dumbass. Let’s go already!” She says back, in the same hushed tone.

“Mom, Dad, we’re going out!” Eren announces, grabbing his winter jacket. He really likes it; there’s a fur padding around the hood and the neck, sewn by his mother from an old coat. Very chic, if you ask him.

“Where to, kids?” Karla asks, putting some shirts on hangers.

“To high school.” Mikasa answers, putting on a red French cap, matching her lipstick.

“On a Saturday?” Grisha wonders, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah. We’re heading to Socrate’s philosophy club. Takes place every other weekend.” Eren responds, chuckling at how funny the cap sits on his sister’s head, and, with small movements, fixes it for her. She thanks him with a warm smile.

“Huh, that’s what you both need…philosophy. All kinds of nonsense, when in a year from now you’ll have to choose universities.” Karla huffs with a frown, spraying some pants with water.

“Dear, let them enjoy it. They have all their lives ahead to work their asses off. Children, don’t listen to your mother, she skipped her philosophy classes in high school.”

‘Yeah, because she was busy sneaking out to see you.’ Eren wants to add, but with a tremendous effort he manages to hold back.

“Just make sure you don’t come home late…” The older woman warns the young teens, and the stern gaze she’s holding tells Eren and Mikasa that mother hen is not indeed kidding.

And just before the door slams shut, the girl swiftly grabs a jacket from the hanger that is definitely not hers. Eren is laughing while Mika is proudly putting on her adoptive mother’s animal print fur coat.

“You were definitely a thief in a past life, Mikasa.” He’s saying, matter-of-factly, while scanning her from head to toe. Eren looks in awe, at this young lady whom he has the privilege of calling _his girlfriend,_ but is so much more than that. Today, she chose to curl the ends of her hair outwards, and together with the leopard coat and the scandalous red lipstick, Mikasa looks like a young, French film protagonist.

“Come on, we’re gonna be late!” The girl wails, dragging Eren by the hem of his jacket. The pace is rushed, as the young teens head to the bus station. But Karla is already watching them from the balcony, and there’s a big surprise when she sees Mikasa dressed in her mature, unfit for a young girl, leopard fur coat. Behind them, an angry mother screams out the window:

“You’re in so much trouble for this stunt, young lady!”

They both laugh in delicious litter snickers, not even turning their head to look behind.

Back in the Jaeger household, Karla sighs, exhausted, leaning on the windowsill.

“This debauchery means nothing but problems, Grisha!”

“Come on, dear, they’re teenagers. I’d be more worried if they weren’t having an attitude.” The doctor points out, walking to his wife and embracing her from behind. An undesired chill runs down her spine, when she feels the cold, skinny fingers of her husband. The touch is formal, calculated, almost impersonal, nothing like it used to be when they were sneaking behind Diana’s back.

“Yeah, yeah. But rumors say there’s some Scouts roaming around that high school. They should be more careful or they’ll get in trouble for being easily impressed.” She mumbles, looking down, with concern, at her children.

Because, sometimes, death lies in the final chapter of recklessness. That’s what she learned, after years of staring out the kitchen window, at the sloping roads in front of their brick house, where, from time to time, the funeral marches carry girls in their wedding gowns.

~*~

“Eren, I’m staying behind for a smoke with Historia, save me a seat in the classroom.” Mikasa says when they reach the school gate, breaking their bubble of mutual comfort. A few meters away, behind a strategically placed pine tree, a tiny, pale arm is cordially inviting the brunette for a chat.

“Suit yourself.” Eren grunts, unwrapping his arm from her middle and leaving Mika behind. They can’t risk being too lovey-dovey out in the open.

The young man is making his way to class with heavy, thumping steps. You see, winter is already making its presence known in the fortress called Shinganshina High school, and the entire courtyard is covered in a nice, clean, sparkling layer of snow.

Eren bites his lower lip and imagines how the staff is probably saying ‘not it’ each time they pass by this messy situation nature created, otherwise there’s no logical explanation why no one has shoved the snow and everyone has to make do with a small path on which they walk in a single file.

And with each concession he and his loved ones have to make, the angrier Eren is at the people in charge.

“Stupid fucking Titans!” he mutters under his breath. This boy will never be able to forgive them, for everything they’ve done, for everything they’ve taken away from this generation. His friends are certainly craving for something, but how could they know what they want when they’re not even aware of how a normal society looks like; a society where justice prevails, where the lights don’t go out at 8 PM and where privacy is an actual thing.

However, the worst part about this whole ordeal is the bathroom situation. Because of the freezing temperatures, there is literally nowhere else to go outside during recess, so you can imagine the sight of twenty-something young people clumped up in a tiny boy’s bathroom.

If it weren’t for the juicy conversations, not even Eren would endure the suffocating scent of cheap cigarette smoke and fruity perfume. Even more so that now the teachers raid this place like their wage depends on it, trying to catch and punish students.

Just yesterday none other than Mr. Zeke himself, his stepbrother of sorts, busted half of his class smoking in there, including Eren. He also confiscated the book the young boy was reading almost peacefully; Brave New World by Aldous Huxley.

_“So that’s what you’re into now, huh?” The teacher says, waving the book in front of him. “Science Fiction, really, Eren? I’ve looked over your record, and I believe there are other subjects you should focus on. Like math, for example. A 63% is not exactly a business card for any student, wouldn’t you say so?”_

_But Eren just frowns, with his eyes cast down at the ground and tail between his legs. He hates this part the most, where he has no choice but to be the loser, but the age has arrived when he can pick his fights, and this is one he can’t win, no matter how many facts he brings on the table. Submission really doesn’t go well with his attitude._

_“Come at me by the end of the school year and I’ll give it back to you, Jaeger.” The older man explains, as Eren’s classmates vanish into thin air, not willing to risk detention._

_“_ _Please, comrade Jaeger, it’s a matter of my honor. Don’t take this book; I have to give it back. It doesn’t belong to me.”_

_“Where did you get it from, then?”_

_Eren bites on his lower lip._

_From Mr. Socrates._

_But he can’t say that, or his homeroom teacher will be in trouble and Eren wouldn’t be able to forgive himself easily. Mr. Ackerman is really the only thing that prevents him from not completely ditching every class on the schedule. So he swallows down the truth._

_“From the local library, comrade Jaeger.” He whispers, hoping Zeke will show mercy on him._

_But the mercy never comes._

_“I’ll personally deal with it so as not to stain your honor, Eren.” The math teacher says, then turns his back on him, walking down to the teacher’s lounge._

The boy sighs, thinking about what happened the other day. He’s starring at the window, silent, alone, waiting for the class to start. It’s late in the afternoon and he sinks in his desk, simply enjoying a few minutes of contemplation. Mikasa has returned, smelling like a furnace, and is talking to Sasha about birth control, while Armin is showing Connie the latest photographs he took.

The sight of Eren sitting alone in his desk is quite rare, but it’s one of those moments when he truly feels like himself. He has to admit, the boy is popular as a consequence of his rebellious attitude. Many students are attracted to the way he does whatever he wants, whenever he wants, however he wants, despite of what the grown-ups have to say about it. They respect him, some adore him, and some masturbate at night to the thought of him, but even so, Eren’s not exactly…social. He pretends, of course, because more acquaintances equals more resources for fun, but all this time the boy has been laughing at how the school loves whoever is shouting the loudest.

A snicker stirs up his throat. Perhaps that’s why Titans are the ruling party.

If only people were not so blind, they could see his screams, shrieks and agitations are one of a wounded animal, desperate to survive. He always feels deep down that he has a wolfish nature to his being, but he hasn’t found out yet if the human side of him is hunting down the wolf or the wolf is chasing the human, ready to eat him alive. So is his fate, and it may very well be that it is not a very exceptional one.

There must have been many men out there who have had a good deal of the dog or the fox, of the fish or the serpent inside of them, without experiencing any extraordinary difficulties on that account. In such cases, the man and the fish live on together and neither does the other any harm. One even helps the other. Many men indeed have carried this condition to such enviable lengths that they have owed their happiness more to the fox or the ape inside them than to the man itself.

So much for common knowledge. He will find a way to deal with it, sooner or later, with the help of Mikasa, Armin, Miss Rodin, or who knows who else.

A loud slap against the wood desk makes Eren jump out of his own skin. Apparently, during his daydream, Mr. Ackerman has already entered the classroom. The boy looks around, seeing some of his colleagues sitting down, not moving a muscle. Jean and Connie are sitting in the middle, while Armin and Mikasa browse over the blonde’s photographs in the back of the class. Sasha and Historia have just put aside some soggy Cheetos, and that concludes the small group Mr. Ackermann has invited today to discuss authors, influences and debates.

But how did Socrates manage to sneak up on him? Wow, this man is silent as a cat. He could very well work for the Secret Police or something!

Their teacher is leaning slightly against the desk, looking down at the distracted student. His grey eyes are piercing Eren’s soul, so much that he turns from the lonely sad wolf to a helpless little whelp. Everything regarding Mr. Ackerman is so intimidating; the white pristine shirts he wears, his posture, how he’s never late, it all awakens such respect in his students. And that is even before he opens his mouth. ‘Cause after that it’s game over anyway.

“Shove those words deep in your thick skull, kid.” The teacher’s deep voice is stern and echoes in the silent classroom. “Philosophy without math, without physics or chemistry, without practical knowledge about life, is not even worth a frosted onion. I’m really getting tired of defending your bratty, pretentious, irresponsible sorry ass.”

Eren certainly is confused at the sudden advice, but then he looks down at his desk. All of a sudden, his eyes start to shine and his whole face lights up. That loud snap from earlier was apparently Mr. Ackerman throwing a book down in front of him. And not just any book…

_Brave_ , _New World_ to be exact. The book he thought he’d never see again. He must’ve fought like a gladiator with the odious math teacher.

The boy is so ecstatic, he can’t hold back a typically rude observation. “Wow, Mr. Socrates, what an advice! Thank you. Did you take it straight from the Party handbook or did you give it a personal touch as well?”

Big mistake on Eren’s side. As soon as those words get out of his mouth, a sharp pain hits him. Levi grabs the boy by the hair, fisting his brown locks and pulling really, really hard, until Eren’s forced to partially sit up, teeth clenched and eyes watering.

“Learn your place, boy. Unless you want to shove the snow in the entire schoolyard, on your own, after class is over.” The older man grunts between his teeth, low and threatening like a hellhound.

“Sorry, Mr. Ackerman, it won’t happen again.” His student wails in pain.

“For sure it won’t.” Levi replies as he lets go of the boy, making Eren fall back on the chair with a thud.

“Now class…” Their teacher begins, walking slowly to the front desk, hands clasped behind his back. “This might be the last time we meet this semester….do you know why that is?” Levi pauses, turns around and hops on the desk, legs lightly swinging. He takes a deep breath, fixing everyone’s petrified gazes.

“It’s because any day from now, the school might get shut down due to the lack of central heating, abundance of snow, stuck roads, or God knows what else. And we will send you home, since, you know what, who cares about two or three school days when we could all be sleeping at home, not doing our jobs? I want to ask you, how do you feel about that? Do you think this is how a civilized country handles problems?”

“Excuse me, sir!” Connie says, raising a hand. “But isn’t this politics?”

“Yeah. Should we talk about that?” Jean adds. “It’s not our place to question the situation.”

“Then whose place is it, Jean?” Mr. Ackerman asks, crossing his legs clad in a perfectly ironed pair of black pants, as per usual. “Tell me. If you don’t start thinking with your own head now, what will you do in one or two years, when the Government’s decision will directly affect you? Will you shut up and bow down?”

Oh dear, the teens think, it’s one of those days when Socrates brainfucks us without aftercare. Jean doesn’t respond, but in moments like these it’s an audience Levi is asking for.

“Listen, brats, malice aside, I really have something to tell you. Something big. There’s a reason I gathered you here today. Don’t think it’s a pure coincidence that you’re sitting in this classroom. Usually, I let Erwin do those honors, since he’s a way better diplomat than I am. That’s my problem, you see? I tell it like it is. But perhaps that’s why he wanted me to give you….a little piece of our minds. Hard and straight to the point. How about that?”

Most of the students are by now, eyes and ears. Eren is practically drooling with curiosity, and even Mikasa and Armin are interested.

“I’m overstepping many boundaries here, as I’ve done quite a lot with you in the past, but pay attention. Please. For once in your life. What I’m gonna say to you is most likely illegal in the eyes of our dear Party, and for sure, you could file a complaint against me.” And Levi’s gaze drift to the girls, then the boys, taking once again any necessary precaution.“ But I’ve dealt with those types of issues before. Problem is…I do held grudges. And you don’t want that with me, I assure you.”

‘And lose our favorite demented short king? No way in hell!’ Sasha thinks, while looking down at her desk. All kind of profanities are written or scribbled, a stark contrast to the carefully picked words Mr. Socrates usually tells them during his classes.

“I know you’re at that age when you look at us, the adults, with hatred and superiority. But take a closer look at me, at my colleagues, or your parents. The grown-ups are a defeated generation.

And I beg you still, stop hating on your teachers… I know you think some of us deserve it, but let me tell you, we are all miserable people whose tragedies might warn you of something. We sell our skills for a pitiful paycheck and want you to step into this world knowing something. Stop mocking my colleagues.”

Connie rests his head in his palm, looking at his girlfriend from across the room, then back at Mr. Ackerman. He wonders how someone could lead their life with such stoicism, and yet still be so sensible. Because Connie knows, just as Eren, Mikasa, Jean and all the others do, that their dear Socrates cares about them a lot. Even if he never gave them a single smile and sometimes speaks cruelly to them. It’s just that Mr. Ackerman is a smart man, and Connie hasn’t seen once in his lifetime someone smart that didn’t have a certain attachment issue. Just look at Mikasa, who aces at everything and has read twice as much as them, with her big, motherly heart and shit.

They are both called Ackerman, and both are really big softies on the inside. He tries to hold back a snicker at the irony.

“Teenagers can be really mean, to themselves and to others around them. I’m aware of it and I’ve been in your shoes, but you have no right to despise some of us. We’ve all worked hard, and it’s not our fault your parents did better in the long run. You are not superior to your teachers, because mommy and daddy’s money do not represent you. The only thing that does is what comes out of your mouth.

But _be careful_ of what comes out of that nasty mouth of yours. The time of the fist and brutes has passed long ago. If you look beyond the walls, the world out there, that I pray you’ll see one day, is more open than ever. English children are learning all day long, and so do the French, the German, you name it.” He shifts his upper weight to one hand, with a nonchalance that doesn’t quite suit him. But Levi knows, the lack of a stiff ass attitude is how he gets closer to them.

“We’ve lost the fight.” He goes on. “It’s clear as a day.

But you…you still have a chance. We settled for some Pepsi and a Depeche Mode record and thought, in our own naivety, that if we read, _they_ will read too. And then we’d all embrace progress with open arms and set this country free from its misery.

We were wrong. Some of us escaped. They are earning a lot of cash in foreign lands and deep down still miss this dumpster of a town, when there’s a void of inconvenience between kings and stray dogs.

But you, children, you have a chance. You have _the one and only chance_ to do something good _._

Don’t think about stealing from the State funds, not even for a second. That is the easiest path, I know. You probably found out it’s the most convenient way to get rich. If you own some land or do business with the Titans, you’ll be settled for life. You’ve heard something about tax evasion… or how you might steal from profits and lie in your receipts, but all is still not very clear to you.

That’s not the road you wanna walk on, believe me. The more you steal from one another, the less _they_ will built, and the children of your children will inherit a land of debris. All of you are so young, yet none of you have any idea what it means to have a town in which things run smoothly. If you won’t find out soon and _they_ keep on stealing, think about y _our_ children. There will be no chance left.

The people in charge are not able to tell you who Delacroix is. Or Duchamp. Or Chagall. Those thieves probably think Zarathustra plays for a football team. Very few of them can tell you who painted _The Last Supper,_ or why Visconti chose Thomas Mann’s novel to make a cataclysmic movie. The only thing they can teach you how to steal. And this way of living, sooner or later, hits a dead end.

And there’s one solution for all of this.

Read, children. Read a lot. Read everything that falls into your hands. At this age, nothing is more important than knowledge. Stop reading _only_ what your teachers tell you to. Read anything, without judgment, beyond what’s compulsory.

International literature will help you distinguish between good and evil. Balzac, Stendhal, Dumas, Dostoyevsky, Dickens, Tolstoy, Goethe, they all know the difference between right and wrong. From this poor country’s present you can’t learn what good is. But you, all and each of you, could be the goodness Paradis is in dire need of. Nothing is impossible. Through fighting for what’s right, you’ll strangle this evil that’s been suffocating us, and your rebellion will be like a plague of locusts on the harvests they don’t deserve.

Then, seek yourselves out. Find out which one of you likes the same things, and build up a strong pack. Yeah, just like wolves. Because only in pack can smart people make it. If one of you goes to fight, they will be eaten for sure, but ten, twenty, thirty, of you might get away with the dreams you have.”

The students all have questions now. Why is Socrates insisting on this _fighting_ thingie? They are just teenagers after all. Who can they actively fight? The biggest confrontations they’ve ever done in their life are probably with their parents. Surely he isn’t insinuating something bigger, is he? But as for now, their teacher won’t take questions anytime soon.

“Brats,” Levi goes on, “now’s the right time to start thinking about replacing _them_. Their time must come to an end. You have to dominate those scums. But not by stealing more than they currently do. That’s the most simple, brutal way, and it will suffocate the heirs of Paradis.

What will you do with millions of dollars in a dead city? What will you buy with stacks of cash? Why should you own a Ferrari if there’s no highway to ride it on? Why should you have a three-story house in a neighborhood drenched in floods and mud?

Stop listening to those stupid magazines. Can’t you see they don’t give two shits about what happens to your generation? In this industry, the dumber their buyer is, the easier it is for them to sell any shit they want. And the shit you buy comes from stupid people paid accordingly. Meaning cheap. Are you cheap?

You shouldn’t buy whenever you see a discount, be more selective with your choices, kids. Read the publications you really need, some than truly inform you on the important matters. Although in our country…you know how it is with the freedom of the press.

And please, _please,_ stop drowning yourselves without common sense in alcohol and nicotine. It’ll only make it easier for the incompetents in charge to label you as a generation of degraded punks, and the necessary funds for your salvation will end up in their pockets.

There will be a time for tequila and Marlboro, but right now your duty is to learn. Do it while you still can, because soon, after high school is over and we part ways, there will be no more time for that. The life of an adult without any aid is worse than surviving in a jungle. Animals live by unspoken rules, but we live by written laws which are so much worse because they serve no purpose.

Stop making money a major goal in your life. And stop envying the rich people. Dumb, cosmopolite fuckboys shouldn’t be your role models. After they can’t get it up anymore, all they will have is a list of some holes they’ve stuffed their pepees into. Those kind of achievements come and go. But you, you have the chance to leave something behind. Money is not the way. Look at where this hunger for money has brought us.

Money must be a means to end. The end is wisdom, children. And the more you will know, the taller you will be. Each book you read, every learned lesson, will be placed under your feet and help you rise above everyone else. Then you can dominate with your intellect alone. There is nothing more beautiful than that. Europe, America, they all buy intelligence. Paradis doesn’t, because thieves don’t buy, thieves steal. Remember it’s your own pockets they are robbing and that should be enough motivation to stop them.

And at the end of the day, history is written by the ones who _build_ empires. You’ll hear all your life about Napoleon or Caesar, but I guarantee you, your children won’t know who the 7th Colossal Titan was. 

I look at each of your faces, brats, you are still so young. Don’t think that’s a weakness. Your power lays in your innocence. Your soul is pure, they didn’t get the chance to stain it yet, but if fighters won’t rise from among you, the Party will shower you with the mud of the streets they promised to fix but didn’t. Each drop is money that should’ve been on that road but instead is in their bank accounts. Doesn’t that make your guts churn? Stop complaining. The change Paradis wants lies in your hearts, don’t you understand that? If you leave this country in the hands of frauds and rascals, your children will have even a bigger mess to clean up.

And don’t even think about giving up just because you don’t have the means. Any Newton, Dante or Kant would’ve survived and written their works in any rural Paradisian town. This is the type of person people will believe in. One that doesn’t need a background for dreaming, or physical comfort in order to be happy. But, most importantly, this country will be changed by those who want to think regardless of academic environment.

Resigning will lead you nowhere. Rebel, fight, protest. But don’t be senseless. A protest without a clear purpose is just straight up barking. Study the laws and the Constitution. Find out what are your rights and obligations. Then you’ll know who can kick your ass or not. That’s very important. You’ll be able to defend yourselves in the long run. Knowledge or information is a battle tactic in itself.

But then you’ll find out the laws are stupid, incomplete, bad, and need to change. And changing the system will seem like time-consuming hard work. But goddamn it, kids, you’ve got all the time in the world and nothing is too hard for you, is it?

I know you. You’re good people. I’ve been in your shoes. Me, along with Mrs. Zoe, Mr. Smith or Ms. Ral. But we’ve lost the fight. Some of us, me and my colleagues, can help you out. But we’ve grown soft. Our bones are not as tough as they used to be. The fire in our eyes barely keeps us warm. We’re still strong side characters in this silent war, but you have to understand, that _you are the heroes of this story_. Good things have always come from younger, eager generations. You’ve got the guts and nothing to lose. _And the little you brats could lose will be overshadowed by how much you could win_.

Look amongst you and choose your leaders. Choose them and never carry an ounce of envy for them. They’ll have the glory, but the nightmares too. A true chief can save us, but in the end they’ll have to give up their own self. Start the search for your captains; look every day into each other’s eyes, because, when the decisive moment arrives, whether it’s me or principal Smith, we will be useless. An old crow cannot lead an army into the battle.

Start thinking with your own heads or you’ll die along with us. And then the gates of freedom will be shut once more and _they_ will win once again.

Who are they?

Well, I’m certain you know very well. You see their fat, stupid faces in the daily newspaper. Or on television.

Save us! Save yourselves! There’s only one way. The fight for knowledge. And when you’ll win it, only then you’ll _know_ what you’re truly _fighting_ for.

Stop wailing in the present. Save your asses in the future.”

And with that, Mr. Ackerman pulls something out of his inner pocket. His stone cold expression never changes as he throws a handful of patches on the front desk. The teens have frozen in their seats. Armin can’t swallow the lump in his throat. Jean literally forgets how to breathe. Connie’s eyes are sparkling, as if he’s about to burst.

Because right in front of them, lay the wings of freedom. The symbol of the Scouts stares back at those young, innocent people. They all feel a heavy burden on their shoulders.

Because it’s one thing to complain about school, the roads, or the System in Armin’s door room and it’s completely another one to be part of this secret anti-Government resistance. Where people die, go missing or get arrested.

Eren is, however, full of goose bumps. They’re the result of an immeasurable excitement.

Finally, he, along with others, can do something about it. About the mess they’re all in. The Scouts probably took a look at them and decided a bunch of teens are done with every compromise they have to accept. The left corner of his mouth raises up in a pleased, feline smirk.

“I’m certain you know what those wings mean. You have until the first Monday after winter break to decide. Whoever wants to join in, take one patch and sew it on the inside of your jacket.” Levi declares, crossing his arms over his chest.

“We’ve lost this fight.

What will _you_ do?” He finishes, those blue eyes glancing over each and every one of them.

And with a tired wave of his hand, Mr. Ackerman dismisses the class. One by one, the students go to the front desk to grab their own pair of black and white wings. They walk weirdly, still hypnotized by what they’ve just been told.

As the last student passes him by and exits the classroom, Levi releases an exhausted breath. He doesn’t like how this feels. Erwin had an interesting idea, and by all means those brats really want to fight. Every teacher can see it, it’s in their eyes. Still, a hideous thought lingers in the back of his mind. That he is abusing their love for him, their genuine admiration. He and Erwin are exploiting the passion, the determination and the strength of some vulnerable people.

And isn’t our dear System doing exactly the same? The Titans generously reward the students in their youth club, and all they ask in return is to be a lying, deceiving snitch. Reiner, Berthold and Annie have been taught to fight for the greater good, to put the trust in their leaders, because if the Titans win they will prosper and live in an utopia full of rationalized loaves of bread.

Cheap chants and promises. Promises and cheap chants.

A thick layer of nasty dirt covers both parties at hand. The Scouts are, sometimes, no better than the monster they face.

Levi looks outside the window. It’s already dark outside, and the wind is blowing some snow from the rooftop. He clenches his fists.

‘You’re a picture perfect demagogue. The worst imposter of them all. That’s what you are. A scum for serving them overused, pathetic lines about freedom. The history of mankind, from the crack of civilization until the modern era, is full of those recycled themes about rising from the ashes. And the students call you Socrates. Are you not ashamed of yourself? ’ A tiny, nagging voice plague his thoughts. He literally told them nothing about the risks that will come. His speech made it look like joining a religious organization that condemns every small pleasure in life.

Harmodius and Aristogeiton, the Popes that lead Crusades, Robespierre, Benjamin Franklin, Bonaparte, Lenin, Hitler. All of them promised a great, bountiful futures to their followers once the old, outdated power is out of the picture.

And what did they do in the end? Oh, that’s right. All of them became just as cruel as the previous leaders.

Levi feels defeated.

‘Didn’t even the Titans once promised to break the chains holding us down? To free this country from the Marleyan colonizers? Rise and become an independent country? And look where that got us.’

These thoughts continue to linger in the back of Levi’s head, long after he turns off the lights and heads back to his cold, white apartment.

~*~

No one is speaking as they head outside the classroom. However, one should not mistake their silence for bitterness. Today, a handful of teens walk home with a glowing aura. They are not saying anything because there is no need to.

Have you ever seen a great movie at the cinema, and when you leave the theater room you feel ethereal, like you’re dreaming and nothing is impossible? A belief fills you, that with one snap of finger and a well-timed thought, you could lead a life like the main character in the movie.

That’s how Eren feels right now.

He, along with his friends, can change the world. The Survey Corps is no longer a myth, but instead, a very real revolutionary group that wants _their_ participation.

Somebody finally trusts him. The people that will bring down the Titans.

Mr. Ackerman has given them those wing patches and invited him and his friends to the fight.

The cat is out of the bag. The rumors were true all along.

‘So that was what everybody is talking about, huh?’ Eren thinks.

It feels like losing his virginity all over again and finding out about a _great_ secret.

“See you on Monday, doofus?” Armin asks him. Footsteps crunch on the thin layer of snow, as Armin and the rest head to the adjuvant dorms. It is already dark outside, and the public illumination guides the way back.

“Hopefully.” The green eyed teen replies, locking eyes with the blonde one.

Jean, Connie and Sasha also halt in their places. Historia is waving an enthusiastic goodbye, but the tension in the air is so thick you can cut it with a knife. Their breaths steam in the cold winter air.

Until Eren is suddenly throwing a contagious laughing fit. For no reason, apparently. It is very characteristic for this theater kid to freely express his random emotions.

But then Armin joins him too.

And so do Connie and Sasha.

Jean follows suit.

Mikasa and Historia also burst out in uncontrollable giggles.

And so, seven younglings are laughing their guts out in front of the Shinganshina high school, under the dim light of a public street lamp. They don’t stop until their stomachs hurt. Why should they? They have so many reasons to be joyful. All the snickers and chuckles, the giggles and wheezing, it’s their way of saying: Look at me! I’m alive! I feel so much! I’m ready to scream! Why should I be quiet? The sadness is for the grown-ups who have run out of time.

Eren starts grabbing his friends, guiding them into a circle until they can all form a group hug. Sasha is wiping her tears and Jean chokes on his own spit out of the blue.

The teens stay like this for a few seconds, a plethora of arms thrown around their shoulders. When the laughing dies down, Armin breaks the silence:

“Guys, guys, can you believe it? We’re gonna be part of the Survey Corps!”

“We will take down the Titans!”

“End this Regime!”

“Play Taxi Driver in cinemas!”

“And bring Hershey’s to Paradis!” Sasha exclaims.

Mikasa is smiling warmly to their friends. Other than finishing a poem, hugs are her favourite thing in the world. Not that she has the guts to admit it, unlike Eren, the demigod of touch starvation itself.

“Theater kids by day, revolutionaries by night! We’re like superheroes!” Connie eagerly declares.

“I tell you Connie, we’re the new Batman!” Jean snickers, patting his roommate on the back.

They let go of each other with heavy hearts. But even as the hug ends, a tremendous enthusiasm stays on their faces. Eren pats Armin on the head a few times, then the group splits in half: Eren and Mikasa head to the bus station, while the others go back to the dorms.

No one is out on this Saturday night, the weather is way too cold for an evening stroll. The young teens are all alone out there, as if they’re the last people on Earth. They can even hold hands. The sensation is pure bliss.

While waiting for the bus, Mikasa hits the play button on her Walkman. The first track starts, a rhythmic song she knows by heart. The girl taps her feet to the beat, hoping to warm herself up. Eren scrunches his nose at the state of the bus stop. There are three plastic chairs under a shelter, all of them dirty, broken and smelling like piss. Who gives a shit about public property, anyway? Ninety percent of the population is still working under a pavlovian behavior: if there’s not a material reward right away, they won’t do it.

How can you explain to an uneducated, most likely addicted person that when they’re damaging those seats, all the others have to deal with it?

It’s a long way to go until the average Paradisian citizen will understand the notion of morality. Until then, Eren prays to escape this Stone Age.

But sometimes it feels like only a meteorite clash could solve all of their problems. He would like to talk to his father.

_“Dad, I’m terribly sick.”_

_“Oh, well, good thing I’m a doctor. What’s hurting you, son?”  
“P a r a d I s …”_

The boy throws a last look to the dilapidated bus stop. An itch settles in his throat, as if his own repulsed body wishes to spit on the dirty seats. But Eren knows that if you fight fire with fire, you will leave behind only an empire of ashes.

But then he turns his head and sees _her._ Mikasa, with her leopard coat and curled ends, swaying left and right and humming a song. The red scarf she always wears is puffed up and covers her mouth. And so the boy forgets the problems of their world.

The aches, the piss, his father, Paradis, Socrates, they can wait for all he cares.

The boy goes in front of the girl and grabs her elbows. He mimics her moves and they began to lull together from side to side. Mikasa pulls out one of her earphones and gently sticks it into Eren’s ear, sharing the song. The sound glitches sometimes, but it doesn’t matter.

“Well, I didn’t know Hamlet could be so…electric. You bad, bad girl.” The boy says, reminding her of the lie from the other day.

Mikasa sighs and lowers her head in a joyful display of embarrassment. But Eren won’t have it today. He lifts her chin up towards him, then slides his fingers, gently, teasingly, down her shoulders, until he guides her limbs around his neck, as greedy palms settle on her waist. Now they’re really dancing. He wishes Armin was there, to photograph them swaying in a cold, foggy, dirty bus stop. The shot is probably worth the Pulizer he deserves.

_I, I will be king_ _  
And you, you will be queen_

“I can’t believe I’m gonna fight for the Survey Corps, Eren.” She sighs. He nods accordingly, capturing her gaze in pure adulation. In this whole wide world there is one pair of slanted, deep, dark eyes. Only two of them. ‘How strange!’ The boy thinks. There are so many other eyes on this Earth, more slanted, deeper, darker, prettier.

Yet all of these others don’t stare back at him. He wants to drown his own gaze solely into the singular pitch black eyes he worships. And that pair is not on the other side of the world. They’re right there, in the same town that he is, in the same bed, in the same life. Nothing can break Eren and Mikasa apart. Nothing and everything, like an inexplicable warm mush of melancholy.

“Can you imagine? Leading a revolution? Burning down flags on the Parliament rooftop?” Eren wonders, stuck in the fantasy.

“Well, there’s a long way to that. And I don’t even know how to sew those patches on our coats.” She replies.

_Though nothing will drive them away_ _  
We can be Heroes, just for one day_

“I’ll do it, Mikasa. Theater kid, remember? Besides, I’d hate to see your pretty little hands working on something else other than my co-” 

“You perverted sexist scumbag!” She headbutts him before he can finish, slamming the crown of her head into his mouth.

“Mmm, I’m sure you weren’t saying those things last night!” He moans in sadistic mockery.

“That line is so overused, idiot…” Mikasa grunts, grabbing the fur on his hood.

“Yeah, yeah, love you too.” He snickers, leaning in and kissing her forehead.

The song hits is second chorus, as their slow dance in the night continues.

“Do you have any idea on how we can help the Scouts?” The girl asks, pressing their torsos together, sharing the precious body heat.

“Of course I have! Remember the classic play we’re doing at the theater club? It’s for the annual national contest between bands. Teens from all over the country are gonna be there. And the best part, so is the press. It’s all going on live television.”

“But that isn’t until June!”

“Exactly…gives you plenty of time to write a powerful speech I will deliver on the final act. Then everyone in this country will hear of the horrors _they_ are doing!”

“Eren, you’re crazy! You know I’m not good with prose, scripting and shit like that. ”  
“Nonsense. You are ridiculously good at everything you do. I’m fairly convinced you ate bird shit when you were a toddler.”

“But I don’t know anything about political manifestos and revolutions! All I’ve done is some silly angsty poetry.”

“Mmm. Bullshit. Look at you, my little revolutionary, with that cute little red cap. You’re like a Che Guevara I’m sexually attracted to.”

But Mikasa scoffs and looks down at the dirty pavement.

“And where will I learn about what I should say? Even Mr. Ackerman said that protesting without knowledge is nothing but barking. I’m nobody’s pup, Eren.”

“Please calm down. I trust you completely. Even more than that, I feel like we can’t possibly fail. How silly is that?”

“Very. You’re naïve Eren. I fear the worst will happen with your big mouth involved.”

“I doubt it. There’s no losing when I’m with you.”

She sighs. A long, exhausted one, and hides her face into the crook of his neck. But Eren doesn’t let go. In fact, he cradles her tighter in his arms, pulling her flush against him. If she’s by his side, there’s nothing he can’t do. The song plays in each of their ears.

_We can be heroes for ever and ever_ _  
What d'you say?_

“By the way…”Eren whispers, pulling apart just a little. “I know Christmas isn’t for another week or two, but I got you something.” He smiles, searching for something in his jeans pocket.

“And do you think now’s the right time to give it to me? Eren, what in the name of hell couldn’t wait until Christmas mornin- ”

But the boy shoves something down her middle finger. A silver armor now encases her pale flesh, from knuckles to the last phalange. At the base sits a beautifully handcrafted sphere with a cross on top of it.  
“Oh my god!” Mikasa breathes out, as she raises her hand to examine it, turning her finger from side to side, admiring the unique jewel design. She already knows the grown-ups won’t agree with it, but the little punk devil on her left shoulder is currently basking in ecstasy.

“What a pretty ring…” The girl moans.

“Pretty ring for a pretty girl.” Eren confirms.

“But…wait a damn minute. This sphere…with a cross on top of it….Oh my.fucking.God! Eren, is this a Vivienne Westwood ring?”

The face she just made is all the nourishment Eren needs for the next ten years. Her eyes are glowing, while a blush sits on her cheeks, her hands are shaking with delight and a wide smile graces her face. Not even when she cums is she that beautiful.

“Sure it is! Where did you think I was the other day until late in the evening? Armin and I searched all over this town until we made a deal with a smuggler.”

“But this is a designer ring! It should’ve cost you at least four allowances!”

“You’re worth way more than I can give you. Don’t worry, I know that. You don’t have to rub it in my face, baby.” He says with a cheeky wink.

“You shouldn’t have…”

“Shut up. I remember how you looked all summer at the foreign fashion magazines Miss Rodin had.”

_Oh we can beat them, for ever and ever_ _  
Then we could be Heroes, just for one day_ _._

Mikasa brings her mouth to his, her red dry lips clashing with his equally chapped ones in a welcomed display of gratitude. Eren breathes in sharply, completely taken aback. She’s never kissed him first. Not even when they’re alone in their bedroom. Mikasa’s never been the one to initiate it, always too afraid they would get caught. And now his girlfriend is doing it in public, under dim street lights, her hands clutching onto his jacket like a lifeline.

And it’s no innocent peck she’s giving him, either. Her tongue almost assaults his mouth, her moves so primal, raw and heated, she’s making Eren’s head spin. This is heaven on Earth.

In her arms, right now, the future seems like a vague and stupid concept.

The sound of a massive engine scares Mikasa away. His girl is pulling back, turning around to see the bus halting in the station. Its doors creak loudly when they open out of synch, rusty and dirty like everything else the Titans assign to the people. She sighs, disappointed, and gestures for Eren to embark.

His hands, however, keep her in place.

“How about we walk home tonight? We can hold hands all the way back.” He suggests with a wide grin, head still dizzy from the kiss.

She freezes as the doors close, and huffs when the bus continues his route once again. They have just missed the only chance to get home on time.

“I thought you hated cold winters like these.”

_“Eren, do you like cold or hot weather better?” her shaking voice asks in the dead of the night._

_“I like warm winters and cool summers.” Comes his honest answer._

_“huh. That’s because you’re a coward. You only want the good part of things.” Mikasa says, ash falling from the half-smoked cigarette._

“I’ve changed my mind. I must learn to love things as a whole. The good and the bad.” Eren answers, grabbing her hand and holding it tightly. Slowly, they began walking back through harsh winds and dirty, watery snow. He doesn’t mind, though. Who knows when they’ll get another moment like this?

“Besides, there are some people worth freezing your ass for.” He chuckle through chattering teeth.

But when Mikasa stops to wrap half of her scarf around his neck, Eren knows it. That what he feels for her isn’t love.

It’s religion.

Mikasa is a whole Cosmos of cold, stoic kindness, and the Universe itself, with all its mesmerizing galaxies and fascinating stars, is merely an extension of her beauty.

And so they continue to walk in silence, hand in hand and fingers linked, connected by the scarf around their necks, like the read thread Mikasa has heard in the legends of her people. The moonlight shines down on them.

“I hope you realize this doesn’t mean you’re getting your dick sucked tonight!” She shouts with confidence.

“Aww, no way baby! You know I’m an equalitarian! You give some, then I give you some.”

“You’re such a moron… There’s no way you’ll be the leader of our revolution with this attitude.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like, comment, or just read for your pleasure! Hope you enjoyed it! I know I could have done better with this chapter, but I've been so busy with college, my creativity wasn't the same as usual. But don't worry, I'll try to update more often in the winter break! I found the picture on tiktok, but I will try to find out the real source! Song is Heroes by David Bowie!

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you like. Leave a review, a kudo, it's my first time trying this platform. Your reviews and opinions mean so much to me, you have no idea.  
> The picture does not belong to me. I found it on Facebook on a page called Giorgi Journal.  
> I hope you stay safe through this pandemic mess and pick up hobbies that make you happy, as I did.


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